


War of Three Kings

by drakensis



Category: Deryni Chronicles - Katherine Kurtz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 105,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakensis/pseuds/drakensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For more than a hundred years the exiled House of Festil have sought to reclaim their former kingdom of Gwynedd. For just as long the House of Haldane have stood against the Festils who usurped Gwynedd from them and tried to hold a moderate course between their human subjects and the sorcerous race known as Deryni.</p><p>The lines have been drawn and armies are on the march. Three Kings are converging upon an obscure village about to go down in history as the Killingford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Deryni series. The Deryni books are the property of Katherine Kurtz, and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Writer's Preface:

For those unfamiliar with the world of the Deryni:  
I've endeavored to make this story accessible to you.  
Please be aware that religion is a factor in this story. Despite resemblences, the Catholic and Orthodox churches and Islamic faith have no actual roles. Any resemblence to historical events is unintentional on my part and I've no desire to offend anyone's own religious faith.

For those who have read - and hopefully loved - the Deryni stories:  
You may note a few disrepancies between how I depict some events in Meara compared to how they're described in The Bishop's Heir. While I enjoyed that book (it was the first book of the series I read) some of the historical information in it has been contradicted by entries in the Codex Derynianus.  
From a Watsonian perspective, the information in TBH is narrated by Loris and Morgan, almost a century after they took place and in Loris' case, there's no indication he's ever been as far west as Meara before that point - all the information on his career indicates he spent it in the dioceses of Valoret and Stavenham, both in the north-east of Gwynedd. The facts are buried beneath generations of propaganda by both sides: it serves the Haldanes to claim Jolyon's blessing and it serves the Mearans to claim Roisian was a helpless child.  
From a Doylist perspective, the Codex Derynianus is more recent information from Katherine Kurtz, indicating revisions. It's also, in my eyes, a better story.

* * *

  
Now, these are the Names of the Eleven Kingdoms,  
sung rightly well of old;  
Howicce, and Llannedd, and fierce Connait;  
mountainous Meara, the Land Beyond the River;  
and Kheldour, the windswept;  
and pastoral Eastmarch;  
Tolan and Torenth, and myth-ridden Mooryn  
and lost Caerisse, which sank beneath the sea;  
and far-reaching Gwynedd, seat of the Haldane Kings.

\- Lay of the Lord Llewellyn  
Troubadour to the High King of Mooryn

* * *

 

 

Prologue

 _Then they brought out the king’s son, and put upon him the crown and gave him the testimony, and made him king. And Jehoiada and his sons anointed him, and said, God save the king._  
2 Chronicles 23:11

It was the ancient custom of the House of Furstán that Kings were made upon the first day of the year. No snow lay upon Beldour as the great state coach was drawn by six white horses from the palace to the quay but a cold northerly wind tugged at cloaks and hats, making many glad of thick woollen garments.

Oft times such ceremony must be one of mixed feelings: the ascension of an heir meaning the passing of a beloved predecessor. Today no such grief was called for. Merely looking forward allowed the new king to see a head of white hair above cloth of gold marking his father’s presence as part of the Moving Ward.

This ward, a sphere of silvery light, offered protection to the new king against the malign. It also, the man hanging from the right step of the carriage – clad in a blazing red to symbolize the Archangel Michaél – mused, marked the support due such a king. Only the highest of Deryni could maintain the complex spell and by custom it was the nobility that bore the task of serving as the symbolic Pillars of the Realm. No king could be crowned without the support of at least four men gifted with power both temporal and sorcerous.

The carriage – only part of the great cavalcade, for few of mark within the Kingdom of Torenth would wish not to be seen as part of the day’s events – came to a halt at the quay and the four men around the king dismounted. The red-clad man opened the door to reveal a man clad in white: the incipient king, bareheaded but his golden hair already turned into a crown of light by the wards around him.

Cheers went up from the people of the city as they laid eyes upon him for the prince was popular and much honoured already, well known for valour in the north of Torenth and for charity at home. Less fortunate kingdoms might shun the Deryni, decrying the ancient race of sorcerers as damned to perdition but the Torenthi were wiser and took pride in the enlightenment of their sovereigns.

The continuity of this rule was in evidence now as the new king walked with stately confidence towards the barge that would carry him north to Torenthály – once private estate to the founder of the kingdom but now home instead to their most sacred rituals - and the Hagia Iób. He walked upon a fine carpet and upon flower petals scattered before him by children, accompanied by hymns of joy.

To maintain the Moving Wards, the four Pillars of the Realm walked in formation around him. The royal princes who flanked him were his cousins, his white haired father leading the way and behind him, in the blue that marked both the element of water and the archangel Gabriél, his son displayed accomplishment that would have been rare in men twice his age.

The king settled himself upon a throne-like chair on the royal caïque, below a canopy far more practical than it might appear at first glance for inclement weather was hardly unknown at this time of year. Around him settled the four Pillars, each provided with a stool.

This respite was a welcome one to the four men as the wards must be maintained even now. As the riverboat was rowed upstream, the prince in green used the relative privacy of the caïque to exchange a smile with his brother in red. The eyes of the king and his son were on the gold-clad father and grandfather who had led the way. The Moving Ward was not only complex but also a burden upon the stamina of those supporting it. The older man had never been weak, but nor was he as hale as he once had been.

His shoulders remained squared however and from the more distanced perspective of his position to the side, the red prince thought his face expressed neither fatigue at the effort nor regret at the passing of power to the next generation but instead only serenity.

All too slowly the caïque made its way up the river until at last it settled against the destination quay. The slow pace of the boat was not only to preserve the dignity of the occasion but also to allow those gathered in Beldour to overtake them on more hastily rowed boats and reach their required stations at the Hagia Iób.

A white horse awaited the new king, held by the sons of dukes. Though restive due to the noise of the crowd gathered for this most holy of spectacles, the steed calmed immediately once  
the Wards encompassed it. No mounting block was provided for this too was part of the ceremony and yet another ducal son stepped forwards before abasing himself on the cobbles to serve in the role.

The King’s brother, son of a father who at least retained a hereditary duchy and himself duke in his own name, bore the King’s foot without complaint and for his part the elder sibling mounted swiftly, turning to bestow a fond smile as his brother stood once more and moved back to join those who would follow the King to his anointing.

Gathering up the golden reins, the King nudged the horse into a slow walk towards the great church that awaited him, careful not to outpace the four lords around him. Around the edges of the ward, more lords assembled, eight of them robed in purple. Bells attached to the hems of their robes and tall black hats chimed in accompaniment to the King’s approach and in their hands golden frames carried more bells to mark the rising flow of energy.

Abraam, Patriarch of Beldour, stood before the gates of the church, flanked by the full Synod of Torenth. All twelve Metropolitans wore golden vestments and tall mitres, nothing but their finest being fitted to this occasion.

Here once again the procession halted, as once dismounted the King received the kiss of peace from Abraam and reverence in turn from each of the Metropolitans. Pages moved discreetly to replace the boots of King and Pillars with soft felt slippers suitable to the church floors within. Hagia Iób’s great doors welcomed the greatest names in the Kingdom as these preparations were made and once all was deemed in readiness, the great bell that men called Iób’s Complaint tolled thrice to herald the coming of the King.

Marching in pairs, each swinging a censer, the Metropolitans preceded the King into the church. Patriarch Abraam took his own place behind the Moving Ward, his voice taking up the introit of the killijálay, the making of a king.

“Glory be to Thee, Who hast shown forth the light, glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good will toward men…”

The hymn was carried onwards in rich harmony by the choir within, voices rising along with the incense as the procession marched along the vestibule towards the great dome of the church. Their route was marked by the banners of demesnes from all across the kingdom that as to receive its new monarch and as the last Metropolitan passed each banner was lowered in submission that the King might tread upon their silken folds.

As the procession spread out to encompass the great tomb that lay below the heights of the dome the four Pillars similarly spread out, the Wards now encompassing not only King-to-be but also the tomb of his great ancestor. Furstán Torenthály lay here, waiting for his kingly descendants as he had for almost half a millennium, the stone of the tomb now draped in royal purple.

The king turned and by his will the great silvery dome of the Moving Ward reshaped itself to a line of shimmering light across the tiled floor of the Hagia Iób, admitting another for the first time since they had left the great palace in Beldour.

The Patriarch stepped across the line fearless of the dire consequences had any error been made in its lowering. In his hands he bore a girdle of gold, bejewelled in rubies and he raised this upon high as the chorus of monks sang alleluias before, with great respect, laying down his burden at the foot of the tomb.

“Marek ho Phourstanos-Phestili, thou hast come before your great ancestor Phourstanos to render homage and to be girded with the sword and anointed king. Hast thou made yourself in ready in all things to take up your inheritance?”

“With God’s help I have.”

Abraam bowed deeply to Marek. “Then it is mete you should take up now the girdle of thy rank and station.”

The choir raised their voices in a new hymn as the King prostrated himself before the tomb. Only when their voices fell silent did he left the girdle and wrap it around his waist, a glittering ornament to his white tunic and hose. The patriarch stepped forwards and assisted him in securing the girdle.

“Now bring forth the Sword of Furstán, that his servant may take up his inheritance in the service of his people.”

Iób’s Complaint tolled once and the great doors swung open by command. Through them marched six burly guards, together carrying the great scimitar upon a cushion of purple. The scabbard, inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli, studded with precious stones, was itself worth a king’s ransom. The six men lifted the cushion above the tomb and then, careful not to lay hands upon the sword itself they removed the scabbard and retreated beyond the ward.

Silent until now, Kyprian II Könyves Káspár Kirill Furstán, King of Torenth, descended from his golden throne beyond the tomb. Nearly as old as Marek’s father he remained powerfully built, only the slightest hints of silver in his hair.

Abraam bowed his head before his king. “Now in truth, begins the heart of killijálay. Now shall the servant of God, Marek ho Phourstanos–Phestili, take up his inheritance. Let us give honour to the Four Holy Ones as we invoke their protection!”

The prince in red – Arkady, firstborn son of King Kyprian – could feel Marek taking hold of the strands of power offered to him by the four Pillars of the Realm, beginning the transition to build of them a stronger ward yet.

“I call upon the Holy Michaél,” the Patriarch declared and Arkady gasped as warm hands seemed to take his in silent but potent support. “May he stand with us in joy and gladness at this killijálay, to sanctify his servant Marek ho Phourstanos–Phestili.”

Saving only the intake of his brother Nikola when the Patriarch invoked Holy Ouriél, Arkady grasped little further of the invocations, overwhelmed by the four towering Presences he felt hovering over them.

His father reached out and with both hands lifted the scimitar from the tomb, invoking the mighty legacy. He kissed the blade and then waited as Abraam touched Marek heart, brow and tongue with the sacred oils.

With this completed, Marek prostrated himself before Kyprian. “Deathless Phourstanos,” he appealed. “Your servant and son seeks your blessing.”

Kyprian dropped to one knee and touched the younger King upon the crown of his head. “I speak now as once did Our Lord. Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight; I will put my Spirit on him, and he will bring justice to the nations.”

Marek raised himself to one knee and as he did so, Kyprian stood and held the Sword of Furstán level with Marek’s face. With great reverence the newly anointed king placed his hands between his overlord’s upon the sword and then pressed his lips to the steel.

“I, Marek Malachy Moyslav Furstán-Festil, son of Imre of Tolan and of your sister Torvalla, am your liege man of life and limb and enter your fealty, doing homage for all the lands of Gwynedd, of which I am lawful heir by right of my father. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die against all foes. This is my pledge, so help me God.”

Arkady had been Truth-Reading Marek as he spoke, knowing that so too would all Deryni gathered here for the killijálay, including his own father.

Feeling no prevarication Kyprian answered formally, “This do I hear, Marek of Gwynedd. And I, in my part, pledge the protection of Torenth to you and to the cause of your suffering people, to defend you from every creature in my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honour. Thus say I, Kyprian Könyves Káspár Kirill Furstán, King of Torenth and Overlord of Gwynedd.”

Solemnly he lifted the heavy blade away and restored it to the purple cushion before taking his nephew’s hand and raising him to stand beside him. “Together with our noble ally Prince Jolyon we will rid Gwynedd of the usurping Haldanes and may God defend the right!”

.o0o.

“Whew.” Nikola shook his head as he and Arkady crossed the River Beldour again, this time in a more discreet barge rowed by his own Arkadian retainers. “I’ve done workings before but I can’t say I expected this to be so…”

Arkady nodded, gathering his red mantle around himself against the cold wind. Even with the sun high in the sky it wasn’t what anyone would call warm. They were fortunate it hadn’t snowed. “It’s not as if Kings are crowned every day.”

“I’ll settle for once more in my lifetime if that’s alright with you.” His brother grinned and touched his shoulder. “I think I can manage it for your coronation when it comes.”

“Do you think I’d want anyone else at my side then? Of course, if father outlives me…”

Nikola shrugged. “We’ve survived fighting the Northmen, how bad can Gwynedd be?”

Looking ahead to Beldour, with the spires of Saint Constantine’s rising above the city, Arkady shook his head. “Don’t say that around father. It’s easy enough to install Marek in a throne at the cathedral here in Beldour. Trying to do the same for his grandfather at Valoret cost our House heavily forty years ago.”

The younger prince leant back against the cushions of his chair. “You’re not usually this melancholy. Do you have a premonition?”

“No, but we’ve both seen what can go wrong when someone lets their optimism get ahead of them and father isn’t above doing that.”

“Roslów was a long time ago.” Nikola turned to the other gentleman aboard the barge. “Please speak freely, Sir Blaine, do you feel my noble brother is right or is age beginning to catch up with him prematurely?”

The young knight considered the question seriously. “I think my prince Arkady is right to be aware that in war even a victory is unlikely to be without loss, but I do not believe he speaks the against the venture as such, merely to wish every reasonable action be taken to ensure its success. After all, his beloved brother’s betrothal rests upon it, does it not?”

“Well spoken, sir!” Nikola leant forwards. “Ah, Arkady, you’ve spoken to me often of the joy your own marriage has brought you – surely you’re pleased that I’ll have the chance of experiencing the same myself now?”

“Of course, I’m pleased; and not only because you could hardly have married better. The heiress of a Sovereign Prince, no less? I assure you I’m looking forward to your marriage far more than I do to any eventual coronation of my own.”

“I’d drink to that if I’d brought any wine.”

“Please permit me.” Blaine produced a flask from within the folds of his cloak. “I like to be prepared for contingencies.”

Nikola’s eyes brightened but he passed the flask up to his brother first.

“Fiannan wine!” Arkady exclaimed after sampling the contents. “Good knight, if you’re looking for a patron in the court you’re well-armed for the matter.”

Blaine smiled. “I’ve the honour to serve my cousin, Count Donan, Sire. But the friendship of princes is always a blessing upon a minor knight.”

“Not so minor a knight, I think. If I recall rightly – and I always do –“ Nikola paused to return the flask to its owner. “You were among the party sent to Laas to negotiate the marriages of the fair Quinnell demoiselles!”

“Your Highness’ recollection is not at fault.”

“Oh come, Nikola. Haven’t you heard enough paeans to the beauty of your bride and her twin sister? Everyone in Beldour’s been congratulating you and Prince Adolphus on the matches for weeks now.”

“Wasn’t you who told me that no praise for your beloved was too much?” the younger man said. “But it’s another question – one to put your mind more at ease – which I have in mind.”

“I am at your service, Your Highness.”

“Tell me of Meara, Sir Blaine. They are our allies in this matter so surely their strength of arms is a suitably dour topic.”

Blaine arched one eyebrow towards Arkady. “If it would not be deemed impertinent of me?”

“Pertinent to the moment, I would say. I take no offense, sir Knight. For that matter, had one of my own knights recently had cause to visit Gwynedd I would ask the same of them. Knowledge of a foe is treasure above gold when it comes to matters of war.”

There was a moment of quiet as Blaine ordered his thoughts, broken only by the sound of the oars in the river water. “Meara is not so rich a land as Torenth, my lords. This may seem evident for the principality was far smaller a realm even before Cassan broke away many centuries ago due to a schism within the House of Quinnell, but it goes beyond this.”

“Torenth has prospered greatly by virtue of the rich river lands of the Fertile Crescent and it is my understanding that Gwynedd is similarly well watered. Meara, for its part, has no such great rivers, which hinders both communication within the land and also the efforts to farm them. Those lands I’ve seen are hilly and much buffeted by salty winds off the Atalantic to the west.”

“This may seem to make them a weak reed to ally with but this is not the case. The Great Lords of Meara may lack for material wealth but for this reason they compete endlessly against each other for every inch of land that they can farm.”

“Then they don’t lack for fighting men, at least.”

“I didn’t ride to the North in your royal father’s wars, Your Highness, but my understanding is that the Northmen raise forces not as levies to their feudal overlords but as the able men of a clan banding together against outsiders. If so then you would find Meara’s clans most familiar to you.”

The two brothers exchanged looks. “So formidable in small bands but it would take a strong lord to bring them together under any discipline but their own, would you say?”

“Well put,” conceded Blaine freely. “And since your next question is obvious, shall I speak to you next of Prince Jolyon?”

“I’d be glad to hear your opinion of my future father-in-law.” Nikola leant forwards intently. “In all the discussion of Princess Roisian’s beauty and the prospects she brings her suitor, I know distressingly little about her father.”

“As to that, my lord, I’ll need to delve a little into his history. Prince Jolyon was, like you, a younger son. His father, Prince Joel, died young and thus Meara was subject to a regency council for his early life – one reason Meara was unwilling to take sides between Haldane and Festil forty years ago. The Princes of Meara have claimed for a hundred years now that Cassan’s annexation to Gwynedd was unlawful as prior agreements had declared that if one branch of the Quinnell’s lacked a male heir then the other branch could re-unite both halves of Old Meara.”

“Their loss was the Haldane’s gain.”

“Precisely.” Blaine glanced at the shore. “Under a strong king and barring any serious outside threat, Gwynedd has a long history of expanding where it can. That was as true under House Festil as it was under House Haldane. Cluim Haldane’s decision to strip Corwyn of its autonomous status forty years ago was right about when Jolyon and his brother came of age. They were naturally concerned the next step could be predation on Gwynedd’s sovereign neighbours like themselves.”

Arkady sighed. “A little before my time but I recall as a boy meeting Deryni who’d had to flee the Church of Gwynedd when that happened. It’d been one of the few refuges for our kind west of the Rheljans.”

“My own parents among them, Your Highness.” Blaine sighed. “That simply gave more credence to the idea of course. Such aggression could have been masked under claims of a ‘holy crusade’ to cleanse Meara and other kingdoms of the Deryni families that fled there during the Great Persecutions a hundred years ago. We know now the Haldane’s only goal was to secure his border with Torenth but it looked very different then.”

“Meara’s a fractious land and the only hope of holding off the Haldanes would require more unity than its Princes have ever been able to compel so Judhael and then Jolyon had to use diplomacy to try to build up a web of alliances with their Earls and Barons one that could keep their internecine feuds from brewing over.”

Nikola sighed under his breath. “You’re not painting a very promising picture of the lands I’m looking to someday rule over.”

“You did ask, Your Highness.”

“I did, you’re right. Would you be offended if I asked also that you soften the blow with some more of that Fianna wine?”

“Not in the slightest.” Blaine offered the flask again. “Jolyon’s first marriage was to a Haldane – not good news for us because it shifted him towards Gwynedd’s favour. God rest Princess Ysyllt, she didn’t give him any heirs, and his second marriage to Urracca of Bremagne reversed that trend and brought him enough of a dowry to start making serious inroads into solidifying his position. Right now Jolyon lacks only one thing of being the first Prince of Meara in centuries to have a strong grip on his realm.”

“An heir.”

Blaine dipped his head to Arkady. “In truth, yes. He has three daughters and by Mearan law as it stands their husbands would all have equal claim on his throne – not to mention that the Duke of Cassan could argue a tenuous claim based on his Quinnell ancestry.”

“Tenuous in the eyes of the law. Not so tenuous when Tambert Fitz-Arthur Quinnell is Chancellor to Urien Haldane.” Nikola offered the flask to his brother who demurred.

“You paint an unhappy picture of affairs in Meara, Sir Blaine. Jolyon’s old enough he can’t be confident of living long enough for a male heir – if he sires another – to reach adulthood. And a regency would be scarcely better than a civil war between his current supporters. I presume then that that’s why he’s been so amenable towards the embassy you were part of.”

“That seems likely, Your Highness. Securing the agreement of his lords to a single heir not directly of his body would be all but impossible if they all see the prospect of securing a royal bride and claim for themselves. Prince Nikola, however, is an outsider to their traditional enmities and by marrying Princess Annalind to someone outside Meara, particularly to Prince Adolphus who’s been offered the distant – to Meara at least – lands of Eastmarch, removes her as a rival.”

“And there’s also the prospect of bringing Cassan and select portions of Gwynedd under his – and eventually your rule, brother.” Arkady rubbed his chin. “If, of course, they’re able to do so.”

Blaine nodded. “Alone that prospect is a distant one, of course. The lands they covet are Cassan, Kierney and Culdi – all of which are much similar in nature to Meara. Even without support from the rest of Gwynedd it’s not clear Jolyon will be able to subdue them easily. Reinforced with mercenaries from the Connait… well, it’s my belief he could take those lands but holding them would be another matter.”

Arkady’s eyes were calculating. “That’s good enough for our purposes, I would say. Whether he succeeds or fails, those same clansmen will be too busy defending their homes to march east and fight under Urien Haldane’s banners against us.”

“And when – oh very well, if – the Haldanes fall, then Torenth and Gwynedd will be more than strong enough to support the claims of the Prince of Meara and,” Nikola coughed, “His dashing young son in law.”

“I think,” Arkady’s lips quirked, “At least one Prince of Torenth would support those claims. And his cousin of Gwynedd would be well advised to.”

The barge closed towards the quay and the oarsmen began shipping their oars. “I think you for your counsel, Sir Blaine,” Arkady continued, lowering his voice slightly. “I hope you would not be averse to offering me further counsel in future if I should call on you?”

“My prince, it would be my honour.”

.o0o.

Far to the west of Beldour, another city wasn’t spared the heavy snows of winter. Laas, fully exposed to the Atalantic, had been buried in several inches of white, transforming the city’s appearance briefly before smoke from hundreds of chimneys returned it to the usual grey.

From the windows of the Prince’s palace, Roisian Quinnell watched these familiar transitions and wondered if she’d see them again.

“Why wouldn’t you?” her sister Annalind asked irritably when the question was voiced. “Father wants you to be his heir and your husband to be Prince after him. I’m the one being sent away.”

With their mother attending to the needs of Magrette, the baby of the family, the two had been left to their devices and those of their mother’s ladies. The latter, so long as the twins kept their voices low, were unlikely to intervene in the conversation.

“Father could live years more,” Roisian reminded her sister. “And Prince Nikola has his own lands in Torenth. If he wants to reside there I might not return to Meara for years. Who knows what might happen?”

“That doesn’t seem likely. Wouldn’t father want him to stay here so he can meet all the Great Lords and get to know them? I’ll have to leave everyone behind when I go to Eastmarch. Eastmarch,” she added scornfully. “The Torenthi heralds might say Prince Adolphus will be a duke but it’s only a county really.”

“Maybe they’ll add more lands to it. Didn’t Marley used to be part of Eastmarch once?”

Annalind frowned. “I don’t know. Perhaps one of the books in father’s library would say, do you want to ask him for permission to find out?”

“I don’t think he’d like to be interrupted.” Roisian gestured towards the window. “I saw three of the Torenthi going to see him earlier and they’re still in the Privy Council chamber.”

“Well they might be able to tell us directly.” Her sister took Roisian by the hand. “Why shouldn’t we go and ask them? It isn’t as if it doesn’t concern us.”

“That’s true.” Roisian let her twin draw her out of her chair. Glancing around quickly at the other ladies she decided not to suggest bringing one as a chaperone. It wasn’t as if she was unaccompanied and they’d probably prefer to return to the common pursuit these days of discussing whose son was courting whose daughter now that the Princesses were spoken for and the sons of the Mearan lords weren’t conspicuously keeping the option of a royal marriage open.

Matters would probably slow down again in another year or two once Magrette was old enough to marry – which raised another question in Roisian’s mind about who their little sister would marry. After a moment she put it from her mind. That sort of decision would have to rest on what alliances looked promising at that time and there was no knowing that at the moment.

Obtaining wraps kept ready behind the door of the withdrawing room, the two young women were about to depart when the door opened to admit their mother with Magrette and her governess behind her.

“Are the two of you planning an expedition?” she asked sceptically. “I don’t recall agreeing to you going anywhere.”

Despite having proposed the idea first, Annalind now retreated shamelessly behind her sister. “Roisian had some questions about the betrothal agreements.”

“Oh? And were you planning to interrupt your father in the Privy Council, with foreign emissaries present? One might think I’ve failed to impress any semblance of good manners on you.”

“Oh not at all,” Roisian prevaricated smoothly. “But Father Ithel might be able to answer the questions and we could pray for the health of our betrothed while we’re at the chapel.”

Urracca’s face suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation but Father Ithel – who’d been confessor to her husband, to his brother before him and briefly to their father before that – was certainly unlikely to fall for any mischief on the part of the two girls and the offer of prayers was perfectly appropriate under the circumstances. “Very well then. But I expect you to come directly back here when you’re done – unless your father calls for you before then. He’s very likely to want to present you to the Torenthi formally and I don’t want to have to search the palace for you.”

The girls both nodded hastily in affirmation and kissed their mother’s cheek before departing, Roisian stooping to do the same to Magrette.

The cold air outside brought a rosy hue to the cheeks of the two girls as they crossed the courtyard to the chapel. It was a longer walk than the short distance to the stairs which led to the Privy Council and Roisian was beginning to wish they’d paused to replace their shoes as well by the time they reached the porch of the royal chapel.

Fortunately the heavy oak doors weren’t bolted as Father Ithel sometimes did when the wind was strong enough to force even the weighty panels back. Inside was quiet and the light from a torch beyond the arch leading into the nave. Roisian pushed back her hood and flapped her wrap lightly to remove the worst of the snow from its hem before she went further. Annalind removed the wrap entirely and shook it vigorously. “I wish you’d thought of somewhere nearer to go to,” she complained.

“I’ll be glad to if next time one of your ideas leaves mother unhappy you don’t leave the explanations to me. Besides, Father Ithel probably knows almost as much about Eastmarch as father does.”

“Eastmarch?” The stooped, balding figure of Father Ithel emerged from the chamber across from them, an oil-wrapped package in hand. “Ah, my ladies.” He bowed politely. “What brings you to the chapel this afternoon?”

“Prayers for the health and wellbeing of our betrothed,” Roisian explained smoothly. “And Annalind was curious about Eastmarch since it’s the land her future husband lays claim to.”

“Ah. Well fortunately I’m just breaking out some fresh candles so if you’ll give me a few minutes you can both light one for your future princes and beseech God for their sakes.” He led them down the nave and placed the package on the bare table where candles were usually placed ready for use.

“How is it you’ve no candles out already? Don’t you usually keep at least a score out?”

“Usually, yes. However, the Torenthi seem to need quite a lot of candles so I let them take what they needed this morning. I’m not sure what they want them for,” he added with a slight air of suspicion, “But they’re your father’s guests so it wouldn’t be right to hold back.”

“It wouldn’t indeed.” Annalind shivered. “But you don’t suppose they’re using them for… well, for magic. The Torenthi are all supposed to be Deryni after all.”

“All? No, not even close to that. I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t though – the House of Furstán are all Deryni and I’d expect King Kyprian would send at least one of his kinsmen among his emissaries. As for magic, you’d have to ask them. You’ll have to get used to it, you know? Both of you are to wed Deryni.”

“Are they very different?”

Ithel considered Roisian’s question thoughtfully before answering. “I suspect it’s not so different from the way many of the barons in the north and west have a touch of what they call the old blood. It may be no different at all except in how they use it. It’s perfectly understandable to find the prospect of marriage a little daunting but being Deryni doesn’t seem to add much to that so far as I’ve seen so far.” He frowned at the knot on the parcel. “Hmm, would either of you two have fingers nimble enough for this? Mine don’t seem quite as deft as they once were.”

Roisian took charge of working at the knot, prying at it gently while Annalind asked: “They say that Prince Adolphus, who I’m to wed, will be Duke of Eastmarch once his brother wins his throne. But I thought that Eastmarch was a county not a duchy.”

“Hmm. Well Eastmarch itself has an Earl, you’re right. It’s been hereditary in the House of Howell for almost a century if I recollect accurately. But before it became part of Gwynedd, Eastmarch was an independent principality like Meara, including what we now call Marley and there are other lands, south and west of them that they once claimed. What exactly your prince will lay claim to is an interesting question but I don’t think it’s one that’s been definitively answered. Most likely it will depend how much favour he has with his brother when the decision must be made.”

“That doesn’t seem very reliable,” Annalind sniffed.

Father Ithel smiled. “A wise prince, my lady, doesn’t swiftly give his word but instead does so judiciously once he’s determined what is best for his realm. If it serves Marek well to seize the lands around Eastmarch to expand his brother’s domain then he’ll no doubt do so.”

“But if those lords pledge themselves to him, he wouldn’t do that, would he?” asked Roisian.

“It seems unlikely.”

“I hope none of them do,” Annalind declared. “Then my children can look for a grand inheritance.”

“Only none of the lords bend the knee to King Marek, then he’ll have a hard time ruling Gwynedd.” The old priest sighed. “There are few easy answers to these questions my ladies. Only time will tell what happens.”


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

 _Then answered Jesus and said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the Father do: for what things soever he doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise._  
John 5:19

A stormy sky promised worse weather to follow as a small party essayed the road from Desse to Rhemuth late in January. Sir Vasco de Varian had appealed to his prince to wait out the weather in Desse where there were many inns suitable to his station and much less chance of being soaked to the bone on the road.

That prospect didn’t please Cinhil Haldane however and thus Vasco, two servants and four Haldane lancers found themselves trotting along the road on his heels. The wind had whipped locks of the prince’s dark hair out of the queue he favoured and set them fluttering about his face. Skin darkened by southern sun over recent months and wearing only simple riding leathers dyed the crimson of House Haldane, Cinhil looked years younger than he had on departing Rhemuth the previous autumn.

He was also drawing steadily ahead of his companions.

“My lord, we’ll founder our horses if we try catching up,” the sergeant of the lancers called forward to Vasco.

“I know,” the young knight answered. “Stay with the servants and the baggage. I’ll rein him in if I can.”

The expression he saw on the sergeant’s face when he looked back spoke eloquently of how likely it was that the Prince would accept being ‘reined in’ by his aide and Vasco shrugged helplessly before flicking his reins and breaking into a canter. He’d spent a good measure of his savings to purchase the gelding while in R’Kassi with Cinhil and it was the finest horse he’d ever owned. Honesty would compel him to admit though that the charger was no match for tall stallion the King of R’Kassi had handpicked from his stables as a gift to his princely cousin.

Cinhil looked back, a twinkle in the eyes that had always been noticeably darker than those of his Haldane kin. Then he nudged his own horse forwards and Vasco saw the gap widen again. “My lord!” he called forward in appeal and grudgingly urged his horse as fast as he dared.

The road ahead turned to follow one of the streams that flowed into the Eiran River for a short distance before reaching a well-maintained bridge. Vasco thought for a moment that the prince would dare – as some foolhardy squires and even younger knights had occasionally done, ignoring the turn and having their horses leap the narrow point of the stream.

Fortunately at least some caution remained and Cinhil turned the stallion’s head aside. Even with the detour he’d be at the bridge before Vasco could even reach the turn and then out of sight behind the trees that marked the edge of one of the royal hunting preserves.

Vasco gritted his teeth and leant low over his horse’s neck. “You can do this,” he confided, more in hope than in faith. He’d seen a squire attempt the jump three years ago and fail. The boy survived but the horse broke three legs and Prince Cinhil had firmly insisted that the boy take responsibility for putting it down.

The horse bunched its legs as they reached the edge of the stream and for a moment Vasco thought he’d lose his seat as they left the ground. Then all four hooves found the ground on the far side – the man sure he never wanted to find out how close his steed’s rear hooves were to the edge – and they were bursting into the woods to emerge on the road ahead of the startled Prince.

“Vasco!” Cinhil snapped. “You know that’s not a safe jump. You could have broken your neck – or had to explain to your father what happened to the horse you spent so much money on.”

“You’re right, your highness.” Vasco leant forwards and patted the gelding’s neck gratefully. “But I could also have had to explain to your father why I let you out of my sight. Or to your daughters why I didn’t bring you back safely. Lady Rhetice promised a sound kick to my shins if I let anything happen to that.”

The prince snorted and then threw back his head and laughed. “Oh well, with a fearsome threat like that I can see why you took that chance. For Rhetice and Albina’s sake, I promise not to ride off on my own so long as you promise not to do anything so reckless.”

“Gladly, Your Highness.” Vasco turned his gelding. “Can I persuade you to wait until the guards catch up as well?”

“There’s a storm coming in and I’d like to make it to Rhemuth before dark. I’ll wait for them at the next inn so they know they can stay there and catch up tomorrow, but then I’ll press on. As you’ve reminded me, I have daughters waiting for me.”

“I’m sure your father will be pleased at your diligence at returning so quickly.”

Cinhil’s face tightened slightly. “Of that, perhaps. I hope he doesn’t think I’ll be pleased at such a sharp recall.”

“Your Highness, he is the king.”

“I know. And he has my obedience, for am I not here? Whether it’s cheerful and willing will depend on his reasons for calling me home like an errant child.”

Vasco raised his eyebrows but – not being privy to the exact contents of the letter sent by King Urien – declined to comment. “If I may advance another reason to wait for our baggage, may I remind you of the gifts for your lady mother and lady daughters that remain with that baggage. I lack your years of wisdom, Your Highness, but it seems to me that as pleased as they might be by your presence, that some token of affection is often expected by a lady after an absence of several months.”

“Oh? And is there a lady waiting for you to provide her such a token? I recall a package of silks well wrapped among your own possessions, Vasco.”

“You have seen right through me, Sire. My sister is at court and were I to arrive without the promised silks, well I can’t speak for my safety.”

“For your sake then, Vasco, I’ll yield the point. But rather than the next inn, I believe there’s an Abbey a mile or so further along. I’m sure the Abbot will be glad to offer hospitality to some travellers wanting to avoid the rain.”

.o0o.

The abbey were – to nobody’s surprise – delighted to extend hospitality to a royal visitor and his entourage. This hospitality even extended to a thanksgiving mass the following morning where the monks and every lay tenant who could be called in at short notice gave thanks to God for the safe return of the much beloved heir apparent from his sojourn across the Southern Sea.

As a consequence they didn’t leave the abbey until the sun was approaching its zenith and Cinhil pushed the pace along the road as fast as he dared given the snow-covered state of the ground and the heavy clouds that threatened another layer would be delivered soon. With the horses well rested however they reached the gates of Rhemuth before the promise was fulfilled and the normally busy streets were almost deserted as a consequence of the weather.

Their arrival at the gates was announced with glad cries by the guards and pages were sent scurrying to alert various personages of the facts almost before the prince had left his saddle.

Descending the steps from the grand hall almost as one, Fulbert Fitz-Arthur and his more illustrious cousin Tambert Fitz-Arthur Quinnell bowed in reverence to Cinhil as they reached the yard. “Welcome home, my prince,” the grizzled constable of Rhemuth murmured when he bid them to rise.

“It’s…” Cinhil hesitated and then half in surprise concluded. “Good to be home, Fulbert. Very good.”

“We weren’t expecting you for another week or so,” confessed Tambert. “Although with a fine horse like that I imagine you travelled faster than most.”

“Father was quite firm that I shouldn’t delay.”

The Duke of Cassan nodded. “There’s a lot on his mind. It’ll be a great relief to his majesty that you’re home safe and sound.”

Cinhil paused and then looked at Vasco. “Delegate seeing my baggage to my rooms, Vasco. I think I’ll want you with me for this. Unless…” He looked over at Tambert thoughtfully. “This isn’t about another marriage is it? Father promised me at least a year before he’d demand I go stud for the kingdom again.”

“You don’t have to put it so bluntly.”

“The way the ladies at court behaved – with Micole barely buried – it felt very much like that.”

“If it were only that, Cinhil, we’d have been happy for you come back on your own schedule. Let’s be honest: if we were looking at opening negotiations for a royal marriage your father wouldn’t really need you home to make a start.”

“You have a list waiting, don’t you?”

Tambert affected to look hurt at the accusatory tone. “Of course I have a list, Cinhil. I’m your father’s Chancellor, it’s my job to have a list ready. But the list’s waiting for when you’re ready. I promise neither Urien nor I have so much as hinted at finding you another bride.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. That was unfair of me.”

“Indeed. Mind you, I imagine your mother has a list too and if you expect me to keep Queen Jaroni from considering who might bear her more grandchildren then you’re looking at the wrong man.”

In a plaintive voice that was mostly a jest, Cinhil looked skyward and beseeched, “Why me?”

“It’s not just you. Jaron will be of age this year, remember?”

“The poor boy.” Cinhil and his youngest brother were separated in age by almost twenty years. That didn’t keep him from being able to think back to the uncertainties of reaching manhood in the eyes of the law while still a boy in many respects.

Fulbert snorted at the description and then shook his head. “Your father’s at the armoury, you’d better go to him.”

Cinhil’s eyes narrowed as he surrendered the reins of his horse to one of the stableboys and strode around the ward. Vasco stretched his legs to keep up. “Your Highness? You don’t suppose his majesty is… unwell?” It was the only thing he could think of that the Chancellor – the King’s own cousin – would hesitate to disclose himself.

“I don’t know. But why the armoury if that’s the case?”

The buildings that made up the castle’s armoury not only stored weapons and armour for the garrison but also the smithys and workshops that were used to maintain and replace them. It was easy enough to find the King – Urien Haldane stood patiently outside one of the workshops, twisting and stretching his limbs as a master armourer and two apprentices adjusted the fit of new greaves.

Vasco didn’t think he’d ever seen the King in full armour before but now here he was in mail and plate, lacking only sword and shield to step into a tourney… or a battle. He turned his helmeted head at their approach and a cool smile flickered across his face at the sight of Cinhil.

“Welcome home, my son. I’d have come to greet you but Master Daniel needs to finish these adjustments or I could have an accident trying to walk in this.”

Cinhil dropped to one knee in honest, if confused respect. Vasco followed him hastily, similarly perplexed. “Father… everyone’s walking on eggshells. There must be dire news for you to call me home so urgently but neither Tambert nor Fulbert felt free to tell me.”

“Hmm. Well it’s not a secret as such but yes, I’d say the news counts as dire. You know we’ve been keeping an eye on Torenth since Kyprian completed his campaigns in the north more than a year ago. You probably don’t recall but when you were a boy it seemed very likely he’d support Imre of Tolan in another attempt to overthrow us.”

“You can’t mean he’s going to try now? Torenth has been at war in the north for almost thirty years! They have to be exhausted.”

“I hoped that would be the case too, Cinhil, but the latest news suggests otherwise. On the last day of last year Imre of Tolan abdicated his claims to Gwynedd in favour of his son Marek. Kyprian didn’t just allow him to be installed as a King by the Patriarch; he ordered a ceremonial anointment of Marek as a Furstán king, almost as if he was his own successor.”

“Then he’s serious.”

“Deadly serious. King Kyprian’s thrown his full support behind the Festillic pretender. Whether it’s been formally declared or not, Gwynedd and Torenth are at war for the first time in forty years. And God alone knows where that will take us.”

.o0o.

Blaine Makrory’s first thought when he saw the torch-lit party outside Count Donan’s door was that his gambit the previous month might have paid off and Prince Arkady or his brother might have sent for him. That would move him a valuable step closer to access to the information he needed.

It wasn’t until a sleepy voice queried the identity of the arrivals that Blaine, looking down from one of the windows overlooking the street realised that the heraldry was wrong. The men-at-arms weren’t wearing the black and white heraldry of the House of Furstán but the pale blue of Tolan quartered with a darker red that suggested Gwynedd’s crimson.

Festillic heraldry!

Sure enough, in confirmation, a deep voice declared that the party was that of Prince Adolphus Festil.

There was rattling as the door was unlatched. Blaine backed away from the window and moved quietly across the chamber, not wishing to wake the men he shared the room with. The door opened smoothly and he closed it behind him before taking the stairs upwards. The Count’s townhouse offset the floors at the back half a storey higher than at the front, allowing for a high-ceilinged chamber on the ground floor.

Outside the Count’s own chamber, the guard was looking startled. “What’s going on?”

“The King of Gwynedd’s brother has come to call, Rurik. I need to wake Lord Donan.”

Startled the man nodded and knocked on the door with his gauntlet to alert the men within before pushing at the latch.

Inside, Count Donan remained fast but two of his knights were sleeping on pallets either side of the bed and both were away, the most alert even with his sword in hand. “Sir Blaine?”

“Please wake the Count. He has an important visitor at the door.” Blaine was about to head back to the door when there was a flicker of light out of the window. He stepped closer and looked out. Another troop of men in the blue and red livery were there, with lanterns. “Sir,” he asked the Count, who was still blinking his eyes and trying to get to grips with being told there was a visitor. “The building’s been surrounded by guards.”

“Surrounded!” The count jerked awake. “Who would do such a thing? This makes no sense.”

“Well it’s Prince Adolphus at the door.” Blaine carefully didn’t speculate as to why. The Makrory family, like their more famous cousins in Gwynedd the MacRories, included many gifted Deryni. He had to assume he could be being Truth-Read at any time.

“Sir Moiri, take the Prince into the hall. I’ll join him shortly. If he wishes to bring his men in…” Donan shook his head. “No. I’ve done nothing wrong. He can bring his men in but rouse our own men. If they try to come upstairs, stop them.” The count’s family, along with those of his household, were on the upper floors of the house.

“Sir Blaine.” The count threw off his bed covers. “You’re gifted at gathering information. Try to talk to the Prince’s men. Find out what is going on. The King has always favoured his Festil cousins greatly but I see no reason he or they would mean me harm. This is… this is inexplicable.”

Blaine nodded and backed out of the room, letting Sir Moiri go past him and down the stairs.

The Festil armsmen were already through the door which wasn’t a particularly good sign, he felt. Still – there was a lack of fingers being pointed at him so either he wasn’t specifically being sought out or they weren’t here for what he feared.

Following Moiri to the ground floor he received no reaction until he turned towards the door. A pair of guards who had been standing by the door moved forward intercepted him. “I’m sorry, my lord. The prince has ordered no one is to leave until he’s spoken to Count Donan.”

“I don’t imagine the Count will be pleased to hear that,” Blaine murmured, half-turning and gauging his chances of getting his hands on one of the guards. The order only made sense if they wanted to apprehend someone and his one chance might lie with their not knowing who exactly they were after.

Looking again the guards were obviously acting in pairs and he thought he felt the hint of shields on the nearest guard at the doors. Not the strongest of shields but certainly enough to alert the man if Blaine tried to subvert him. So they knew enough to be looking for a Deryni.

“Well, we all have our orders. I’m sure the Count and your Prince can settle matters. Please be aware the Count would be very displeased if anyone other than his household went upstairs before he and the Prince can speak.”

“I’ll be sure to make my lord aware of that if it becomes an issue, my lord.”

“Good man.”

Blaine went the stairs considering his options. Back and front were guarded, the townhouse walls abutted the neighbours but they were stout stone to maintain the Count’s security. And if there was a Transfer Portal here in the house then no one had told Blaine about it.

“My lord,” he began as Donan left his chamber. “They’re refusing to allow anyone to leave. It seems likely they’re here for someone specifically. I’m not sure why yet however some possibilities almost suggest themselves.”

“I’ll ask directly,” Donan decided. “I want you with me, Blaine. You’re known to the King’s sons, which may deter any rash decisions by the prince.”

I can only hope. Blaine followed the Count back down the stairs and into the hall. Prince Adolphus, titular Duke of Eastmarch and by Festillic reckoning third in the line of succession to Gwynedd had taken the Count’s seat at the high table. His sword rested unsheathed upon the table and his face was grim. “Count Donan. I regret that I’ve come to your house under these circumstances.”

“I’ve been more than happy to host you under less mysterious circumstances,” Donan observed sharply.

“Then let remove the mystery.” Adolphus studied his sword for a moment and then looked up fiercely. “My lord you have a spy in your household, one intent on undermining our Kings’ plans for the future.”

“That’s impossible. I trust everyone here absolutely.”

“I’m sorry to say that complicates matters, Count Donan. You do trust your household and thus any of them could have obtained the information we deliberately shared with you. We’ve done this with all the major households over the winter and our own spies have reported what information reached our enemies.”

“No Makrory would serve the Haldanes! You know – or should – how they destroyed our cousins in Gwynedd. Camber of Culdi may have betrayed your ancestor but he paid for his crime and we’ve all seen the bitter weed that resulted.”

“It isn’t precisely the Haldanes that the spy serves although I’ll admit it’s a group that for reasons beyond all understanding for some reason support their rule over Gwynedd.” The prince gestured to Donan to sit. “Please be assured, there’s no suggestion that you’re implicated in this treason, Count Donan. I’m here to ask your aid in unmasking and removing this blemish on your Household, nothing more.”

Donan growled something that even Blaine, standing directly behind him, couldn’t make out. The knight pulled a stool out from under the high table and placed it opposite Prince Adolphus. The count looked at him, nodded firmly and then sat upon the stool. “Very well then, Your Highness. I am, of course, eager to clear the names of my household from this slur.”

“I understand that determination, my lord.” Adolphus steepled his fingers in front of him. “My ancestors have long been concerned at reports of Haldanes in possession of arcane powers. It’s been suggested that they themselves are secretly Deryni but if so the blood should be so thin after generations of intermarrying with humans that I can’t see how it would explain their purported abilities.”

“Surely it’s more likely they keep a Deryni or two in their service – coerced by use of their family as hostages if they prove reluctant. I’ve heard rumours.”

“Not entirely unfounded, alas. King Javan at least briefly maintained a Healer for himself in such a manner and one of my ancestors infiltrated an agent into the Haldane’s courts in just such a role. Alas he was uncovered before he could get close enough to the Haldane to establish the truth, a truth that sadly remains elusive.”

“Nonetheless, we’ve continued efforts to insert spies into the Gwynedd in preparation for our eventual return. Naturally we’ve been trying to contact any Deryni that remain in Gwynedd since a Festillic Restoration has much to offer them. Would it surprise you to learn there’s a council of Deryni who claim authority over all our people?”

“Authority over us? That’s ridiculous. King Kyprian would hardly accept such a council as having authority over him and nor would any other Deryni lord.”

“That would depend upon exactly how far they see their reach as going. We actually first became aware of them through one of their members campaigning to codify the rules of the Duel Arcane in Bremagne, with some degree of success. As measures go that isn’t an unreasonable measure and there are few enough of our kind in the southern Kingdoms without their killing each other off recklessly.”

“All very well but why look to some secretive council for guidance on the matter, my lord?” enquired Blaine. “Surely King Arion’s decree on the formalities of such duels has provided an example of how Deryni ought to conduct ourselves in these matters for at least seventy years.”

“Nobly spoken, sir knight. However, that decree set terms that are in the most part derived from those being proposed by that very Council. It is after all quite a sensible notion and by adopting their rules on one matter we hoped to open communication with them. Alas what we found was far from the apolitical scholars we had hoped for. They style themselves, we’ve learned, the Camberian Council.”

Donan Makrory half-rose to his feet before sinking back to the stool. “Camberian! You cannot mean?”

“Alas yes, these people appear to still revere the treacherous Earl Camber of Culdi as the Saint he was claimed to be after he slew my ancestress Ariella on the plains of Iomaire after helping Cinhil Haldane to murder her brother, King Imre. And just as he did, they have declared themselves the protectors of the Haldanes. Which, of course, explains at least part of the powers the Haldanes have exhibited over the years: a Deryni close at hand but one of this Council’s agents rather than a coerced servant.”

“Those fools! What can they hope to accomplish?”

Adolphus’ lips curled in distaste. “I would think that evident, Count Donan. While some may be motivated by misguided zeal for the cause of ‘Saint Camber’, it’s probable that their leaders seek to make the Haldanes their puppets and rule Gwynedd from the shadows.”

Blaine was hard-pressed to keep dismay from his face. To suggest that the Council would be so wanton as to abandon the loyalties of their founders? But perhaps with the internecine plotting that had so often characterised the Furstán Court at Beldour – and at times fissured House Furstán itself – perhaps it was inevitable that they’d fill the gaps between the facts with what they themselves were accustomed to: untrammelled ambition.

And how likely, he asked himself, was it that one of the Festils would admit that Gwynedd prospered far more under the rule of the restored House of Haldane than it had under their tyranny?

That admission would probably be forever beyond them.

“I see. They would hardly welcome a restored House of Festil upon the Lion throne of Gwynedd then.”

“Quite. The Festillic Kings bowed their heads gladly to our brother Kings at Beldour but they were puppets to no one,” agreed Adolphus. “They must be aware that under my brother, Gwynedd would be safe from their schemes and with a Deryni King, our people would no longer need to look to some shadowy conspiracy to protect them from the humans.”

“Alas, now that you explain it I can see how such a group could exist.” Count Donan rubbed his face. “But my understanding is not sympathy for them. If you suggest that because of the connection to Camber MacRorie that my people would make common cause with these people.”

“I will not pretend that there was not once such a concern, my lord. But my house has been exiled from our homes for many years and we’ve often seen the loyalty of the Makrorys to the Iron Throne. Besides which, as my father has counselled, anyone must realise that there would be an instinctive thought once Camber’s name was raised to at least look in your direction. It would therefore seem too dangerous to the Camberian Council to place an agent somewhere as obvious as among your household.”

“But now you feel that they have.”

“Alas it is so. It’s impossible, we felt, to hide that we’ve made an alliance with the Prince of Meara. However, certain details of that arrangement have been purposefully obfuscated to see which tales reached the Camberian Council. Two days ago one of our loyal men learned in conversation with one of the Council that silver from the sack of Avargorod was being shipped to Meara to subsidise the hiring of Connaiti mercenaries for the Prince’s army. Such a small detail but one that betrayed the source of the information.”

“Are you saying that it isn’t true?”

“Oh there is a subsidy, but we’ve spread several stories of where the funds will come from. Only you, Count Makrory, were told that it was Avargorod silver, so only a man in your confidence could have passed the information to the Camberian Council.”

“I… forgive me, Your Highness, but I find it almost impossible to believe one of my trusted officers could betray me so.”

Adolphus rose and walked around the table to meet Donan, who stood to face him. The prince took Donan’s arm. “Believe me; I understand how deeply such a betrayal cuts. This man likely was at first misled but we can’t deny it and we must know who he is and how far his actions run. If he’s simply been deceived then he can redeem himself in our service by sending misinformation to his masters. But if he’s given himself heart and soul to the Haldanes and their supporters then he will pay the price for his treason.”

Donan hung his head. “I… yes, I understand. What then if all my men are found innocent? And how will you tell.”

“My lord I believe his highness brought quite a number of Deryni among his armsmen. Most probably he intends that all of us submit to being probed.”

“You demand this!” The Count unintentionally flared his aura at the very suggestion. “Your brother may be rightful King of Gwynedd, sir, but he is not king here!”

“You are a most perceptive man, sir knight,” murmured the prince. He reached into the wallet at his belt and extracted from it a twice folded document, weighty with a heavy wax seal. “I have the writ of my uncle, who most assuredly is king here, Count Donan. In this I act from him and not for my brother, Marek.”

Donan unfolded the document and examined. “This… appears authentic. Sir Blaine, you’ve been seconded to the King’s service before. Do you agree?”

Blaine accepted the parchment. “A moment, my lord. I will need to examine it in better light.” He conjured silvery light in one hand, holding it to illuminate the parchment. His attention wasn’t on the words however. The game is well and truly up, he thought. I might be able to bluff my way through being Truth-Read but not past a serious probe. And I can’t let them learn all I know about the Council.

Donan looked impatiently at him and Blaine nodded reluctantly. “It seems in order, my lord.” He took a step towards the prince, extending the parchment and Kyprian the Conqueror’s writ, commanding that Donan Makrory, Count of Kulnán, and his household submit to full examination of their loyalties by his officers. If I wasn’t in here I might make it across the rooftops although I’d be risking ice on the slates. But in here, with guards at all doors… I’m captured or dead.

“I insist you examine me first,” Donan declared to Adolphus. “If this must be done then I’ll take the lead. I owe the innocent among my household that.”

Amusement curled Adolphus’ lips. “My dear Count, do you think I waited for your consent?”

“What! I ordered…”

Blaine’s eyes widened. “A spell to keep us from hearing what’s happening outside.”

“Very quick,” Adolphus said approval. “Please don’t,” he added to Donan, taking a step towards the infuriated Deryni Lord as the man spun towards the door.

That step brought him into reach of Blaine and a moment before he could seize Count Donan the prince found himself seized by one arm. Blaine hooked Adolphus’ heel with his own and brought the man to the floor.

With alarmed shouts the guards rushed forward and Donan, unclear on what had happened drew the long knife that was his only weapon to defend himself. Blaine ignored them all, focusing instead on forcing himself against the prince’s shields.

Surprised and somewhat stunned by the sudden fall, Adolphus nonetheless fought back, resisting Blaine’s probe and reaching for the dirk at his belt. The knight planted the palm of his hand against the prince’s forehead and slammed him back against the floor.

Dazed, Adolphus wavered on the edge of consciousness and Blaine managed to force his way through the shields and probe deeply into Adolphus’ mind.

“Sir Blaine? Stop!” Donan rushed towards the pair only for one of the shocked guards to draw his sword – perhaps mistaking the count’s actions for support of his vassal - and Donan screamed as the blade smashed down upon his shoulder.

Closing his eyes, Blaine ripped deeper into Adolphus’ mind, knowing he was condemning the man to an ugly death, but needing not only to know the truth but also every scrap of energy he could draw.

Cousin! His mind soared out, reaching out far beyond the city of Beldour. *Cousin, beware! The Festils know of the Council! They know -!*

Rough hands tore him away from Adolphus and Blaine gasped with pain as a heavy gauntlet was driven into his gut. “You! You’re the one!”

I should’ve asked Donan to set a death-trigger for me, Blaine realised. But who would have thought then…? His aura blazed with silver around him and with the energy he had left he kindled flames upon his own clothes.

The soldiers released him with startled oaths as shirt and breeches blazed and Blaine shrieked as he felt his flesh scorching. Falling to his knees he seized the dirk Adolphus had carried.

“Stop him!”

Blaine put the blade against his carotid and felt the cold metal briefly. Then with a convulsive heave he plunged the sharp metal though his flesh.

Forgive me, God. I know suicide is a sin, he prayed as the pain reached him. I’m sorry Lord Donan; you deserved a more loyal knight than I…


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 _And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass but the end is not yet._  
Matthew 24:6-7

Sir Piran ap Coran was woken by a strangled cry. Sitting up he saw the source curled on the pallet next to him. “Sir Donal?”

The other knight didn’t wake until Piran reached over at took his shoulder. With a gasp Donal’s eyes snapped open. Even in the dim light that filtered through the window at this hour, Piran could see his comrade’s face was covered in sweat.

“Donal, are you awake? Are you alright?”

“I… Just a nightmare.” He shook his head and ran his hands through the starkly cut blow of blond hair that capped it. “Thank you for waking me.”

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Piran told him frankly.

Donal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t think so. I’d better get to the privy though, just in case.” He scrambled to his feet only to sway alarmingly.

With a sigh Piran pushed his own blankets back and stood. “I’ll make sure you get there safely. I don’t think Earl Godwyn would be amused if you fell in the privy head first and drowned.”

“You have a charming imagination, Piran.”

The two knights put on their boots and cloaks over their nightshirts and with Donal shaking off Piran’s helpful hand made their way down the inn stair to the yard behind. While Donal went to the privy, Piran drew a bucket of water from the well in the corner of the yard and splashed his face. The cold finished chasing away the cobwebs of sleep and he looked up in some amazement at the tall stone and brick buildings of Rhemuth.

Rebuilt a century before and with rigorous laws to prevent the flimsy construction that left other cities burned down with tedious regularity, the ancient capital of Gwynedd was well known by the sobriquet ‘the Beautiful’. It dwarfed the port of Nyford, Piran’s only previous experience of a city.

Donal accepted the water bucket and soaked his sleeve before rubbing his face clean of the sweat. “Thank you, Piran. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. Do you think there’ll be any food ready if we ask at the kitchen?”

“I know squires are always hungry but most of us get over that when we’re knighted.”

Piran shook his head. “I was thinking more about Earl Godwyn. He’s not been knighted yet after all.”

The older knight chuckled at having his jibe turned back on him. “There is that. It can’t hurt to ask. I’m sure the royal court will serve a feast fit for their master but it’s a good few hours before then.”

The pair found the kitchen fires lit and the cooks at work already, happy to provide a platter of cheese, fruit and cold meats from the previous night’s meal that their noble guest could break his fast in privacy.

“I’m well served that the two of you rose early to fetch this for me,” the young Godwyn declared as he sat down to eat. “Do you know if my brother has woken yet?”

“I saw none of his retinue,” Piran answered. “And there was no noise when we passed the Duke’s door.”

Godwyn nodded. “Owain was always fonder of the evenings than the mornings. I think we’ll make an early start today and attend Mass at the Cathedral before we go to court.”

“I understood that your brother was hoping you would accompany him to his meeting with Chancellor Tambert before noon,” murmured Donal.

“I’m sure he does hope that, but Owain lets it slip his mind that while his overlord is King Bresal, our uncle King Urien is mine. This is my first time at Court since I was invested two years ago. I don’t intend to arrive on his coat-tails.”

The two knights exchanged looks and Donal nodded. “Then with your permission, sir, I’ll prepare your clothes now and we can depart early.”

“Eat first,” the Earl reminded him in a lower voice, gesturing at the platter. “You brought more than enough. Besides, I hear Prince Cinhil will be overseeing arms practice this afternoon. It wouldn’t do to have you and Piran fainting from hunger.”

“We older men –“ Donal, at the doddering age of twenty-five, was the oldest of the three by far, “Don’t need to eat as much as those still growing.” He sliced section from the cheese though and selected an apple, cutting it into quarters. “And, I beg your pardon, my lord, but I have had news last night from my kinsmen in the east. It’s said my cousin Blaine is in poor health. May I linger at the Cathedral to pray for him?”

Godwyn blinked. “I didn’t know you had kin in the east, Donal. Aren’t you from Claibourne?”

“Most of my kin are, but some went east after the death of King Jasher forty years ago. We’d had lands in the Lendour highlands at one time.”

“I’m sorry to hear of his ill-health then. Particularly when the King will want all able-bodied men he can. Yes, you have my permission to pray as long as you feel the need. And I’ll include him in my own prayers, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m sure he’d be pleased, my lord.”

Dressing in warm woollen britches and tunics, the three men finished the food on the platter, washing it down with cups of small beer. Piran stepped out to check there was still no noise from the rooms occupied by the Duke of Pirek and his entourage of Howiccean retainers. There were the first rumblings from his door so they hastened down the stairs, Godwyn shrugging on a heavy red cloak with the badge of Carthane as the clasp.

Donal passed Piran his sword before the two knights donned their own cloaks – plainer garments, the MacAthan’s lined with a border plaid and Piran’s with a slightly faded black he could reverse if there was need for mourning garb.

At the door Godwyn turned in the direction of the Cathedral only to turn sharply again through a narrow street. “Is something wrong, my lord?” Donal exclaimed as he quickened his pace to keep up.

“I just spotted Lord Lludd – that violet tunic is unmistakeable – heading this way. He must be here to confer with Owain before the King holds Court. Llary of Llannedd must be even more concerned about Urien ordering all his vassals to have their levies ready for a call to arms than Bresal is.”

“King Llary isn’t married to one of Urien’s sisters.” Piran ran after the other two, hoping he wouldn’t lose his way between the tall buildings. It wasn’t possible to see landmarks like the Royal Castle or St George’s Cathedral with buildings three or more storeys tall on every side of the street. “And his kingdom’s just across the Eiran estuary from Gwynedd. In his shoes, I’d be wary too.”

“It’s ridiculous though. Urien’s past fifty and he’s been King longer than any of us have been alive without going to war once. Does King Llary think –“ Godwyn turned again and Pirek, with relief, realised he could see the spires of the cathedral ahead. “- my uncle simply woke up one day and decided to declare war on a whim?”

Donal smiled. “With all respect, my lord, King Urien hasn’t readied his armies in this way in just as long. Without any recent precedent Llary must wonder at the reason. And he has Lludd as one of his advisors – the man’s never got over Urien marrying your royal cousins off to Bremagne, Fallon and Jaca instead of Llary’s brother Cadell. He’s been suspicious ever since.”

“Well hopefully the Chancellor can put his mind at rest. Otherwise I’ll find my levies watching the Eirian all summer while the Royal Army is fighting the Torenthi.” The Earl adjusted his velvet cap as they entered the plaza before the Cathedral.”

.o0o.

Donal waited until he was sure the young Earl and Sir Piran had left St George’s Cathedral before beginning to pray seriously his cousin. Poor Blaine. It was kind of Godwyn (and Piran) to offer prayers for his recovery, but the most that could be hoped for now was that God was less concerned by suicide than the liturgy of the Church suggested. If the Torenthi knight hadn’t been fast enough… well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He’d picked a spot with forethought to watch the door to the sacristy. Archbishop Marcus des Varreaux hadn’t been long removing his outer vestments but the priests who’d assisted him weren’t so pressed for time – Marcus was likely headed to a meeting of the Royal Council this morning, a temporal need that didn’t weigh on his juniors so much.

Still, one at a time they left to pursue their other duties, leaving only the Sacristan to finish securing the sacred vessels. Donal, still thinking of the cousin who’d been almost a younger brother to him during the two years he’d spent as a student with the Torenthi branch of his extended family, didn’t begrudge the priest the time. Still, it was with some relief he saw the black cassocked man leave at last, closing the door behind him.

The morning light didn’t well illuminate the door and it was the work of a moment for the border knight to slip into the shadows. If anyone wondered where he’d gone from there, well clearly it couldn’t be through the securely locked door into the sacristy.

The lock snapped shut as cleanly as it had opened to Donal without the need for anything as mundane as a key and he turned away. Familiar with the room from other visits he moved to an alcove and a moment later there was no evidence he’d ever been there.

Far to the north he reappeared in an antechamber to a room long lost to the knowledge of humankind. Indeed, it was possible that they’d never been aware of the great octagonal chamber beyond the hammered metal doors. There was no other entrance to this chamber or the greater one but by Transfer Portal, though perhaps that had not always been the case.

There being no formal gathering Donal would have been surprised to find the rest of the Council behind the door. Still, matters standing as they did it had been agreed that one member or a trusted subordinate be waiting in readiness in case of need so the presence of Father Anscom Drummond was no great surprise – although it would have been to most.

With Deryni barred from religious office and his own family too prominent at court for his vocation to a foreign church to be hidden, Anscom had arranged to be seen aboard a riverboat that overturned on the Eirian. Most aboard had reached the shore but Anscom and three others – all strong swimmers – had been presumed dead when in fact they made it to a waiting ship and embarked for more tolerant lands.

“Shouldn’t you be at the royal court?” the aged priest asked mildly, blowing gently on the words he’d just penned to dry the ink. “You know how important it is to have someone close to Urien right now.”

“This may be more pressing. Blaine contacted me last night. He didn’t have time for me to ask questions but… well. It seems the Festils were onto him.”

“Is there any hope he escaped?”

“I don’t believe so. And that’s not the worst news.”

“What could be worse?” Anscom rose and started to pace. “Kyprian hates all of House Haldane with a passion. If he suspects Blaine of collusion with Urien then he’ll not make his death a kind one.”

“He didn’t suspect him of being a Haldane spy. Blaine told me the Festils know about the Council.”

Anscom froze, face paling. “He claimed what?”

“They were specifically looking for someone reporting to the Camberian Council.”

“Oh god!” Anscom leant heavily on the chair. “How could they have…? No, we’d better call the Council together.”

Donal took his seat and the two of them focused their attention on the silvery crystal that hung suspended above the table.

It took long minutes before anyone joined them at the table. Called unexpectedly it could hardly have been otherwise. The first to arrive wore a black cassock over what was plainly a brigandine although he’d at least had a chance to lay aside sword and other weapons.

“I’m glad you’re able to attend, Father.” Donal bowed his head to the warrior-priest in reverence due and in return felt his head touched in blessing.

Father Judicael, once a Bremagne baron and now a senior member of the Knights of the Anvil took one of the two seats reserved for the Council’s Coadjutors and smiled wearily. “I’ll no doubt have to answer to my superiors for the sudden absence but at least I can tell them a little of the truth. You don’t have that luxury, Donal, so this must be urgent.”

“It is. But I’d rather not go over it more often than I have to.”

Bethwyn O’Sullivan arrived next, setting aside her satchel and a broad-brimmed straw hat. “I was working on my garden,” she answered Donal’s amused look. “Talicil doesn’t grow on trees you know.”

“I think he’s more used to seeing you dressed for formal occasions,” the other woman on the council chided, having been only a short distance behind. Silver-haired and stooped, Camille d’Vaudemont took the seat opposite Father Judicael as his fellow Coadjutor and carefully unfolded a fragile set of eye glasses to peer dubiously at the papers Anscom had been drawing up. “Is this what you’ve called us here for?”

“No, I was drawing up some notes when Donal arrived.” Anscom started to reassemble his papers away from Camille’s attention. “I got the impression Ebor wouldn’t be able to reach a transfer portal easily – he said he wasn’t at Trevalga – so we’re only waiting for Walther.”

As if prompted, the door swung open to admit Sir Walther de Cynfyn, who looked around and nodded to no one in particular before sitting down next to Donal. “Is there trouble in Rhemuth?” he asked their youngest member. “I got the impression you were behind calling us in so urgently.”

“Trouble yes. But not in Rhemuth. You might recall I had a source of information from the Beldour court?”

There were nods.

“I’ve had another report from him. The last report he’ll ever make, unless I miss my guess.”

“Do you want to share it?” suggested Judicael. “If, as you say, he’s out of contact then anything we know about him now hardly matters.”

Donal nodded. “I think that would be best.” He stretched his hand out over the table so they could all touch him. “It’s ugly.”

“We’ve all seen ugly before,” said Bethwyn sadly and she gave his hand a little squeeze before shifting her grip to leave space for Anscom and Camille to take hold.

Lowering his shields, Donal brought forwards his memory from the night before, of being contacted by Blaine and of the words that had hurled him into nightmares: *Cousin, beware! The Festils know of the Council! They know -!*

There had been far more than words in that tangle of images of course. Blaine’s thoughts and those Donal had had on receiving them were laid bare. And besides that, of course, was Blaine’s fear.

Walther sighed and sat back on his chair. “Well that’s a miserable business.”

“Is that all you have to say to it?” asked Anscom. “The Festils finding out about the Camberian Council opens us up to being directly targeted by them. None of us are safe.”

“It was only ever a matter of time before they learned of us. We can’t remain a secret and still be effective amongst the Deryni of the west and south. They’re far too scattered.”

“From the heraldry that was Imre of Festil’s second son your cousin was grappling with.” Camille’s voice was mild. “I don’t think Festils will consider any information they receive from Blaine to be worth the price they’ve paid. If he isn’t dead now he’s as good as.”

“What do you mean?”

The old woman eyed Bethwyn carefully through her eyeglasses. “My dear, you’ve never seen someone being mind-ripped. I have. I recognise it.”

“He did what!”

“Extreme situations lead to extreme reactions.” Walther rubbed his temples. “Be honest, Bethwyn. It’s nothing they wouldn’t have done to him – except slower and probably in a far more excruciating fashion.”

Donal leant forwards. “I don’t think they know for sure who any of us are – except possibly their source of information. That’s someone we need to identify as soon as possible. Beyond that we’ve lost our best access to the Torenthi Court. I know Ebor’s been working to discover what’s happening from the Mearan side of this alliance but Torenth is the real threat.”

“The other part is that Torenthi agents will be looking for Deryni close to King Urien,” warned Judicael. “You’re going to need to be very careful, Donal. They don’t even need to strike at you directly. Just drop the word in the ear of the right priest and you’ll be whisked off in front of an ecclesiastical court on charges of witchcraft and heresy. Assuming you’re not just burned by a mob.”

“Someone has to be close to him. At least until we have some idea if he can defend himself from the Festils.”

“Nothing new there, I suppose?”

“I haven’t even had a chance to meet him yet. And I can’t exactly ask him outright if his father passed down the secrets to the Haldane powers to him. Can you imagine the way the Church would react?”

“Don’t even joke about it. We know there’s at least a trace of Deryni blood in the Haldane line through the Drummonds three generations back, but that’s a thin reed to fall back on. If the Festils bring sorcery to play he could be as helpless as anyone else.”

“In which case I don’t see that we have much choice but to see he has support when the time comes. Even if that support are revealing themselves to the Church.”

“You’ll be asking a lot of anyone to do that,” Walther warned. “It’s not just them, it’s their entire family that would be at risk.”

“Better that than to see the Festils back on Gwynedd’s throne. Everything Blaine told me about Marek suggests he’d refuse any suggestion of compromise with the Church, with the nobility and with the peasantry too for that matter. I don’t think he has the slightest clue of the sort of holocaust he’d be sparking if he succeeds in taking power.”

.o0o.

The yards around Rhemuth Castle were full of men and boys in war harness as Godwyn and Piran arrived. Harried officers were trying to bring order to them but the jostling for position – everyone wanting to be closest to Prince Cinhil when he emerged from the keep, made the task an impossible one.

“Do you want to try to get into the great hall?”

“I don’t think that will be much better.” Godwyn looked around and then gestured towards an archway leading around to the gardens. “Let’s try going around there.”

Going through the arch they were confronted by a narrow passage between the back of the armour buildings and the perimeter wall of the gardens. “There should be a gate here, somewhere.”

“There is indeed.” A lean knight a little older than Piran, with a tanned face and wearing a red surcoat over his jazeraint stepped out of an alcove. “However the gate is guarded, gentlemen, so if you’d be so good, perhaps you could return to the yards… unless, of course, you’re going down to the river gate below us in which case don’t let me get in your way.”

Godwyn cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping her majesty might be in the gardens as is sometimes her custom at this hour. She’s my aunt by marriage and since I’m newly arrived in Rhemuth I felt I should pay my respects.” He adjusted his cloak to make the Carthane emblem more evident.

One eyebrow arched and the knight smiled thinly. “Meaning that you’re one of the King’s nephews. I’ll enquire on your behalf. Let’s see, that would make you… no, you’re not Duke Owain so you must be the Earl of Carthane.”

Godwyn bowed somewhat jerkily. “Quite so.”

The knight reached out and rattled the door latch for attention before entering into a hushed conversation with someone on the other side. Piran caught his master’s name but not the rest.

“I’m deeply sorry, Earl Godwyn,” the knight said earnestly. “The Queen is dealing with a wild princess at the moment and if we open the garden door she’ll get into the crowd out there and who knows how long it would take to catch her. She’s invited you to dine privately with her and several young ladies of the court tomorrow at mid-day though, if that would be an acceptable alternative.”

The Earl coughed and Piran thought he saw his ears redden. “I’d be honoured to dine with her majesty tomorrow.”

The knight grinned. “Chin up. Prince Jaron generally acts as page for her at such functions so you’ll not be the only eligible bachelor there.”

“Jaron! Oh good lord, he must be almost fourteen now. I hadn’t realised.”

“I suspect it’ll be just as busy tomorrow but if you come here at about this time we should have Princess Rhetice cooped up somehow and I can let you in.”

“Thank you, Sir…” Godwyn’s ears reddened again. “Your pardon, I believe we may have met on my last visit to Rhemuth but I don’t recall your name.”

“Vasco de Varian, my lord. I was attending on Prince Cinhil when you were invested as Earl in your own right.”

“I’m pleased to meet you again, Sir Varian. Is his highness well? I understand he was visiting his sisters over the winter.”

“His highness is in fine health and excellent voice, as I suspect many of your peers in the yards are likely to find out soon. If I might make a suggestion, the Baron of Danoc is overseeing some archery practise for the squires and pages outside the city today and Prince Jaron will be with the other squires. If you want to make a good impression on Prince Cinhil then learning you’re hard at work already is much more likely to succeed than his spotting you in the throng out there.

.o0o.

"I'm glad I agreed to you visiting our allies in the south. Without that I don't think you'd have spotted half the problems we're having without seeing R'Kassi's armies."

Cinhil raised his goblet towards his father. "I could live with the problems if we weren't about to fight a war. I hate to think what this is doing to the treasury."

"You let me worry about that." Urien's hair had been lighter than that of his sons even before it began to silver at the temples. That had been ten years ago and the threads of silver had invaded the rest of his hair over that time. "Keep your mind on Marek of Tolan and Kyprian of Torenth. We're not running short of funds and I can raise more as needed. That's the legacy of a lifetime of peace, more so than the state of the Royal Army."

Vasco stepped forward with a jug and refilled both men's goblets with more wine. For the sake of security the King had elected to dine with his heir in the Royal Council’s chamber, attended only by a single aide.

“We’ve over a thousand men here already and they’re beginning to overflow Rhemuth.”

“Tambert tells me there’s a similar problem in the west. I’d be amazed if the northern lords aren’t having the same problem.”

Cinhil sipped from his wine. “Have we heard anything from Duke Jernian and the other southern lords?”

“About such problems? No, but Coroth is a large port city. It’s more able to support a sudden influx of people than most towns are.”

“I was thinking more about the numbers.” Sifting through the heaped reports on the table he finally found the tally of each force. “Between Cassan, Kierney and Culdi they’ve mustered nearly as many as we have, with smaller levies still coming in. The Kheldour Lords are assembling at Eastmarch and they’re promising more. With the same from Duke Jernian that comes to four thousand, perhaps five thousand once all the levies are in.”

“It sounds like a formidable host, but forty years ago, the combined armies of King Malachy and Imre of Festil numbered twice that.”

“And we don’t know if they’re going to assault the northern passes into Eastmarch or swing south into Corwyn. Between them and Meara we can’t afford to concentrate the army in one place – even considering the likelihood of plague sweeping through the army if we bring them all into one place.”

“I’ve appointed you supreme commander of the Royal Army, Cinhil. You’re the closest thing we have to an experienced military commander – except Richard McInnis.”

Vasco winced at the thought. The Earl of Kierney had served his cousin King Jasher loyally and faithfully in the darkest days after King Nygel was killed by Imre – grandfather of the current Duke of Tolan – but he was past eighty now and said to be half-blind.

“If I thought I was the better man to make these decisions, son, I’d be making them myself,” the King continued. “We both know that I’m not. You have my trust and whatever you decide I’ll back you to the hilt.”

“Then I’ll take you at your word when it comes to the treasury. Once it’s closer to campaigning season I’ll want to send a delegation to the Connait and see how many mercenaries we can hire. The more of them that are in our service, the fewer Jolyon of Meara can hire. Vasco, fetch me one of the maps, please.”

Setting aside the jug, Vasco lifted several heaped reports and found the parchment that bore an inked out map of Gwynedd and its immediate neighbours. The prince accepted it and handed him the tallies he’d been looking at to place alongside the other reports.

“The Festil’s own lands are here in Tolan so a thrust through the Coldoire pass will let them push an army into the Plain of Iomaire. It’s worked for them before.” Cinhil ran his finger down the line of the mountains that separated Gwynedd from Torenth. In the north they were called the Rheljans and in the south the Coamers but they formed an almost unbroken chain dividing east from west. “They could try the high passes at Cardosa, Carcashale or Rengarth but they’ll have to wait later in the year for that. Or they could bring everything south, amass their forces at the Twin Rivers and push around the Coamers to take Coroth.”

Cinhil looked at Urien and silent communication seemed to pass between them. “That places Duke Jernian in a very difficult position. Coroth is difficult to reinforce quickly without pulling troops off the Torenth border and rushing them down the Grande River.”

King Urien sat back and drank deeply from his goblet, Haldane-grey eyes fixed on his eldest son.

“We can’t afford to let Marek destroy our forces piecemeal and we can’t concentrate to meet him without knowing his route. That means the border forces will have to remain flexible and try to slow him down without being taking heavy losses, buying time for the rest of the army to arrive. What if… yes, that might work.”

“What do you have in mind, son?”

“There must be enough ships at Concardine and Desse to move a substantial force by sea. We’d have to worry about Torenthi war galleys near Coroth, but they could reach Trevas in days if the attack does come in the south. Or if it is the Coldoire route then… hmm, I’m not sure how long it would take a ship to go up the Atalantic and reach the Gulf of Kheldour compared to marching them there.”

“It’s a long way around, my lord,” Vasco observed politely. “I suppose it would depend on the weather. But at the least the ships could move provisions for men and horses so the army itself could make a forced march.”

“Good thinking. Someone will need to speak to some of the merchant captains who know the waters. We could certainly use the Gulf to move troops assembling at Ballymar and Claibourne quickly to wherever they’re needed. We might be able to do the same from Stavenham, although that’s close to the Northern Sea. The difficulty there will be in getting word to them in a hurry – carrier pigeons might do but I don’t want to rely on them. We’ll need mounted messengers as well.”

“That’s one area Marek has an advantage over us,” mused Urien. “Deryni.”

“The old folk tales of them turning into birds and flying across kingdoms in days? I didn’t think you believed in the Church’s wilder stories about them.”

“Not birds, Cinhil. But the Deryni – and some of our ancestors too, including your namesake – were able to communicate over great distances, and sometimes even cross those distances using what are described in Transfer Portals.”

“Those same folk tales claiming the Haldanes are granted the power by God to stand against the Deryni witches? I’ve never noticed such powers, father. Although honestly I’ve never been threatened by a Deryni either. The poor devils are usually lucky if they can live a peaceful life without their neighbours blaming them for everything from poor weather to the state of their livestock.”

“Like most tales, Cinhil, there’s a sliver of truth behind them. I’ve never enjoyed those powers either but grandfather had a touch of the uncanny. I was barely old enough to serve as a page when he died but it was quite impossible to lie to him. And King Nygel had something of the same once he took the crown.” He lowered his voice. “It’s well known my uncle died of a dart to the belly but father always swore that it was sorcery that turned the tide against at Argoed that day. While Nygel lived, the men were defended against the powers of the Festil but once he was carried from the field…”

Vasco watched his prince examine his father over the rim of his goblet. “That’s a remarkable claim, father,” Cinhil said at last.

“Oh yes. I’d not wish to make such a claim in front of the Archbishops, or any of the Curia except perhaps your Uncle Jashan. But there are some tantalising hints in the royal papers. Suggestions that the first Cinhil Haldane defeated the tyrant Imre not with steel but in a duel of magic, that his son Rhys was mortally wounded duelling with Imre’s incestuous bastard Marek under similar circumstances. We Haldanes are no Deryni, but we’ve stood alongside and against them at times. Is it plausible that we could have done so without magic of our own?”

“I hadn’t given it thought, in truth. Have you ever found any trace of these powers in yourself?”

Urien shook his head slowly. “From what little I can make of the references I’ve found there was some ceremony – either as a child or upon coronation, perhaps both – to bring forth these powers. And before you ask, no, my father never mentioned such a ceremony to me. Perhaps knowledge of it was lost with his brothers both dead in battle. If the men they entrusted to help my father assume their legacy were also lost in the battles… well.”

“Then unless you can find some guide to them, the point would seem moot, father. The Festils are undoubtedly Deryni and will have others in their train but I’ve never heard that their magic renders them immune to swords and arrows. Whatever advantage they may have of them, we can put our faith in God and in steel.”

“I trust you won’t be offended if I continue to investigate the possibility though?”

Cinhil pushed his chair back and circled the table to kneel before his father. “Sire, you are not only my father but my King. The trust you have placed in me I return wholeheartedly. If you can indeed assume the powers that once guarded our Haldane ancestors then that would be a great reassurance, but I cannot rest our plans upon success on a venture whose chances I can’t even guess at.”

“Wisely spoken, son.” Urien looked up at Vasco. “Have I shocked you, Sir Vasco, in discussing such matters? I’d not wish to prick your conscience too far, or to shock your confessor too greatly.”

“As to the latter, my lord, when I confess my sins it is my sins alone that the good Father will hear. I wouldn’t presume to make confession of another’s actions – most especially those of my King or my Prince.”

“Subtly spoken. But it disturbs you, does it not? Many would say that to seek such powers is to venture into witchcraft and who would follow a king who does that?”

“To judge by Torenth, quite a considerable number, my lord.” Vasco looked down at the map on the table. “I won’t lie and claim that I’m at ease with the notion, my lord. But in truth what I know of the Deryni is mostly, as his highness says, old folk tales. I cannot judge if these are the same powers I’ve been taught damn the Deryni to perdition.”

“Most will assume that they are.”

“Sire, you’ve ruled Gwynedd for more than thirty years.” Vasco spoke slowly, trying to place his tumbling thoughts in order. “If you were seeking these powers for your own sake, you could have done so at any time, could you not?”

“I could indeed.” Urien smiled thinly. “So that I seek them now will excuse me in God’s eyes?”

“I cannot speak for God, Sire. But I find it difficult to construe that the Almighty would condemn a king for seeking to do more in defence of his people, even if the Church might claim that it imperils your soul.”

Cinhil, having watched this with what appeared interest, placed one hand on Vasco’s shoulder. “Be careful there, Sir Vasco. Suggesting that the Church’s position may not exactly reflect the will of God is a perilous step to match our own. I don’t think I need to ask further oaths of you, but you understand that this matter is best never spoken of beyond the three of us.”

“I’m honoured to be in your confidence, my lord.”

“It’s we who are honoured by your faith in us.” Cinhil removed his hand. “I wouldn’t be offended though if you sounded out your fellow knights about the Deryni. If anyone does know more about what we can expect them to do – or of any who might dare to assist us in countering Kyprian and Marek’s sorcerers – then I’d be glad to hear from them.”


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 _And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God._  
Romans 12:2

Rhemuth seemed less splendid to Piran on his return to the city. He and Donal had accompanied Earl Godwyn, along with a large portion of the assembled knights and royal lancers, north to Candor Rhea where the broad plains provided ample room for Prince Cinhil to continue welding the mounted portion of the Royal Army into a cohesive whole.

It might have been the weather that cast a veil over the beauty of Rhemuth, for with the first hints of spring had also come heavy rains and fogs. The heartlands of Gwynedd, stretching from the Cloome mountains in the west of the Kingdom to the Lendour highlands of its spine were notorious for their fierce weather at this time of year and living under canvas under these conditions had stripped away much of the glamour of being mustered for war.

What placed more of a damper upon spirits though was the cause of the return. Even if the rain hadn’t battered at faces, few cheeks would have been dry as a long procession of Gwynedd’s great and good made their way from the castle to St George’s Cathedral.

Urien rode at the head of the funeral procession but chief among the mourners was Cinhil, robed in mourner’s black, as was his eldest and now only daughter Rhetice, who rode perched in front of her father, directly behind the horse litter that bore a small coffin.

Albina Haldane’s sudden illness seemed to have drawn away the energy that had so energized the prince. Earl Godwyn’s status as King’s nephew placed him near the head of the column and thus Piran found himself riding next to the same knight who he’d met more than a month before outside the Queen’s garden. “Sir Vasco,” he enquired quietly. “I hope you won’t feel I’m being too forward, but my lord of Carthane is concerned at his cousin’s wellbeing. It’s less than a year since he buried his wife.”

That earned him a sharp look from Vasco and belated recognition. “You were with him when he arrived at court but I didn’t catch your name.”

The younger knight doffed his black cap – sodden in any case. “Piran ap Coran, Sir Vasco. I’m merely one of the Earl’s junior officers. I apologise most heartily for any impertinence on my part.”

Vasco looked him over again and frowned. “I don’t think you’re being impertinent, Sir Piran, but this isn’t the best time or place for this conversation. If you’ll restrain your curiosity until the interment, we can talk outside the catacombs.”

The funeral rites for a royal princess were by no means short and Archbishop Marcus, an especial patron to the children of his diocese, made every effort to offer assurances to Albina’s father that his young daughter had died in a state of grace and was among the angels now, not least re-united with her mother Micole. Well-meaning as those words might be, they drew out the formal liturgy to what seemed an interminable length as the incense, mixed the damp air of the season reduced Piran to a state half-entranced and half-dozing.

Clasping his hands in prayer, the young knight fought to at least present the image of piety rather than distraction. Albina had been too young to make much impression on the court but he’d gathered she was a favourite of the queen, herself well past child-bearing after giving Urien no less than seven sons and four daughters. Had she lived, the young princess would have had glittering prospects but now all she inherited in the world was a niche in the royal catacombs, interred beside her mother and stillborn brother.

Death reduces us all so. And when Marek of Tolan rides into Gwynedd, there will be so very much death. Lord God Almighty, I’ve pledged in your name to show courage and honour as a knight and it isn’t very likely I’ll die as gently as the princess we lay to rest today. Please teach me to face that with the bravery your son, Lord Jesu showed upon the cross.

He started to feel a touch upon his shoulder, looking up to see that the royal party had departed into the catacombs, Earl Godwyn among them. Standing over him was Sir Vasco. “My apologies, Sir Piran. You seemed deep in thought.”

“A little of that, a little of prayer.”

“Well this is no poor place for that.” Vasco gestured towards the north side of the nave. “We can talk over there without being heard. I’d rather not gain a name for gossiping about his highness’ business, even if it isn’t anything he’d expect me to hold in confidence.”

Stepping aside, just two more mourners and not of noteworthy rank with the great chamber awash with Earls, Bishops and Barons, they could indeed talk without concern at being overhead.

“The prince is grieving, of course. Losing Princess Micole last summer was a savage blow. But I think part of what sparked the decision to travel abroad following that was the need for something to focus his energies upon. The Prince has always thrived with a purpose in his life but King Urien is so able that it’s mostly minor administration that descends to his sons. Now, with the responsibility for all the preparations for war in his hands, I’m sure his Highness will throw himself into that.” Vasco smiled. “The easy days at Candor Rhea are over, I’m afraid. If you think training was hard before…”

“God avert that we suffer any further tragedies then.” Piran flushed as he realised what he’d thoughtlessly said.

Vasco gave him a cool look and then nodded. “God avert indeed.” He looked him over and then asked. “Perhaps you could answer a question for me yourself.”

“I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

“It’s on the topic of Deryni.” Vasco saw Piran’s eyes widen and sighed. “Yes, I get that reaction every time I raise the topic. My point is that the Festils are Deryni and they – along with many of their officers – are likely to employ sorcery during the campaign. Unfortunately the Church’s pogroms against the Deryni didn’t leave a great deal of information about what they can and can’t do.”

“I’m sorry, Sir Vasco, but I don’t know very much about Deryni either. There are the usual folk tales and I saw one being burned at the stake once but that doesn’t really make me an expert. Have you considered asking someone from Corwyn? I gather Duke Corwyn is a Deryni even if he renounced his powers.”

“Yes. And unfortunately that puts him in a difficult spot. He could quite reasonably fear that discussing Deryni with anyone could lead to his being charged with witchcraft. There are ugly rumours going around about Deryni practises doing the rounds already, sparked by the fear of the Festils. If someone brings accusations against Jernian to the Curia they’re almost certain to at least demand he appear before them. And if he refuses then where can he turn except eastwards for aid?”

“So you don’t dare ask?” Piran shook his head. “Surely there are some records. Haldane Kings have beaten sorcerers before. Some of the stories even say they’re especially blessed by God to be able to triumph over witchcraft.”

“Yes. Unfortunately there seems to be a lack of information about how that’s done. We know the Festils are mortal, but beyond that it’s not clear. The King’s gone so far as to look back to the ancient texts about Byzantyun armies being turned back by the Heldournoi in the third century, but all they say is that the soldiers who returned told wild tales of devils that wielded green fire. Which is colourful but not especially helpful.”

“Green fire? What in the world are you talking about?”

Piran turned and saw Donal MacAthan had approached within easy listening distance of them.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation,” the northern-born knight added. “But Earl Godwyn’s returned from the interment and wants to make sure his lodgings are ready this evening. Something about getting a warm bath before we return to Candor Rhea.”

“It sounds as if Earl Godwyn has a good sense of the practical,” Vasco murmured.

“Ah, excuse me. Sir Vasco, this is Sir Donal MacAthan, also in Earl Godwyn’s service. Sir Donal, Sir Vasco de Varian, in the service of Prince Cinhil. We were discussing, uh…” Piran couldn’t think of any way to explain the conversation tactfully.

“We were discussing the prospect of facing Torenthi sorcery.”

Donal smiled. “We’ll be riding under the leadership of a Haldane King, Sir Vasco. Surely God’s blessing will be on us. Wasn’t it the good King Cinhil Haldane who joined forces with Sighere of Eastmarch and freed Kheldour from its Deryni princes?”

“That’s true, but there’s only one King of Gwynedd – whatever Marek of Festil claims – and probably rather more than one sorcerer in the Pretender’s army. I don’t suppose you recall how Sighere of Eastmarch – he’d be the same man who was first Duke of Claibourne, wouldn’t he? – fought the Deryni of Kheldour. Did he have a magic sword his descendant can bring to battle.”

“Oh that’d be a thing now, wouldn’t it?” Donal stripped off his glove and offered Vasco his hand. “I’m sorry, Sir Vasco, but I can’t tell you any secret way to defeat the Deryni. But I promise you, if I hear of one, I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll be glad to hear from you if you do.” Vasco took his hand and the pair shook before the prince’s aide offered Piran his hand as well. “I’d best report to Prince Cinhil. Do have Earl Godwyn back at Candor Rhea tomorrow morning. I imagine the Prince won’t be too impressed if he’s back on duty and his cousin hasn’t managed that.”

.o0o.

“No knowledge of it at all?” Judicael asked in surprise. “But surely this must be amongst the most vital information for a Haldane King to pass to his heirs.”

Donal shook his head. “King Urien has a notion that the potential exists, but knowledge of how to activate it doesn’t seem to have passed to him. It may have been a security measure – King Uthyr might have thought that bringing forth the potential for sorcery in all three of his sons could lead to it being used in dynastic squabbles, if not between them then between their sons. It’s happened in other lands even without magic, and the Furstáns have been more than ready to turn their Deryni powers on each other at times.”

“I’m not convinced that the Furstán initiation of a King confers much of a benefit to one already Deryni,” Bethwyn mused. “I’ve never seen it, of course. But the Haldane family’s potential is evidently considerable, bringing them from mortal status to a fully prepared adept almost immediately. I can see why a father might want to be sure his sons were mature enough to wield that before activating the potential.”

Ebor MacGregor leant forward. “How the knowledge was lost hardly matters now. The question is, can we reconstruct the rituals and activate King Urien’s potential?”

“Surely the question before that is should we do so at all.”

“I cannot believe, of all people, that you’d ask that, Anscom!” protested Donal. “You know what the stakes are here!”

The old man spread his hands. “Marek hasn’t moved yet, Donal. We have time to think this through and consider this from all angles. Offering Urien Haldane our aid is one course of action but not the only one.”

“Don’t quarrel, please.” Wearing a green gown and mantle more fitting her family’s status in Howicce, Bethwyn gestured for Donal to restrain himself. “I’m not saying that I disagree with you Donal as to the best course of action, but Anscom is right. We don’t need to rush into this and it wouldn’t be wise to. If nothing else, Ebor has a sound question: do we even know how to carry out such a ritual. None of us have ever attempted such a thing, at least to the best of my knowledge.”

“There are certain practises in the east,” Camille interjected thoughtfully. “But that was long ago and I wasn’t personally involved. Two very valid questions then. I believe Ebor’s question does have precedence over yours Anscom. If we’re unable to help Urien then it remains moot.”

Anscom picked his words with care. “It’s hard to be certain without making the attempt. I don’t have immediate access to them, but my grandfather’s papers had reference to his part in at least one such awakening of a King’s potential. I don’t recall offhand which King it was – Owain, most likely. What about you, Donal? The MacRories were involved in all the activations I know of, typically in a leading role.”

“I’ve no doubt notes were taken, but with so many deaths in the family it’s not always clear who retained them – and what was lost. Joram MacRorie had the most experience of them, but I’m not sure what happened to his papers. They might have been handed over the Michaellines and be somewhere in your archives, Father Judicael.”

“I can check easily enough. And I believe he was based out of a refuge in the Lendour mountains for more than ten years. Though I’ve no idea what state that might be in after all this time.” Judicael nodded his head solemnly. “So we do have avenues we can at least pursue on behalf of King Urien, but nothing concrete as such.”

“I think I recall, from family tales, that four Deryni were be required for this purpose,” warned Donal. “I’ve no objection to revealing myself of course – that would be unavoidable under the circumstances – but there would need to be careful thought about who else might participate. Would you, Anscom? It’ll be tricky to bring in many outsiders but as a distant kinsman, you’d be easier to explain.”

“That’s getting ahead of matters.”

“Perhaps so, Anscom,” Walther agreed firmly. “But Donal raises a valid point and once again something that will require thought. I’m hesitant myself under the circumstances. Why don’t we discuss your concerns now. What alternatives do you see?”

Anscom licked his lips nervously. “Please consider this, I left Gwynedd almost forty years ago, in the reign of Cluim. In all that time, can you honestly say the place of Deryni has improved? Urien Haldane may be a fine man in many respects but our obligation is to our people’s wellbeing. I don’t see how empowering Urien Haldane will serve that purpose.”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting we throw our support to Marek?”

“Dear God, no!” Anscom shuddered at the suggestion. “Torenth does very well under the house of Furstán but Gwynedd wouldn’t accept Deryni rule after the abuses of the past, or not in any of our lifetimes.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“The problem with empowering Urien – or any Haldane king – is one that Saint Camber encountered himself. Once the king has those powers, he has no need for Deryni. I don’t honestly think Urien would wish to see another pogrom against those of our people but nor do I think he’ll do anything for them.”

“I’m still not hearing an alternative plan,” Donal reminded him.

“Forgive me for wanting to explain the perspective from which I’m coming. What I’m proposing is that we offer instead to support him directly against Marek and the Deryni in his service. I’m sure between us we can come up with a dozen, or perhaps even a score, willing to serve in such a capacity. I’d gladly go myself. And ask him to guarantee us royal protection from the Church’s writs against using our powers. Perhaps even relaxation of some of the civil aspects of the Statutes of Ramos. I don’t expect the Gwynedd Church would allow Deryni priests but they’ve compromised before on other matters. This might be the best opportunity to convince them to take one more step in the right direction.”

“I think you underestimate how much fear of Deryni has been stirred up by priests, virtually all honestly believe what they’ve been taught.” Walther twisted one of his rings around his finger in thought. “I see what you mean about this providing some bargaining power, but once the crisis is over… Urien’s ruled thirty years without us. The need for us would vanish. And so too could whoever we send.”

“We might, that’s true.” Running one finger along the grain of the table’s wood, Ebor seemed lost in thought. “But with the right people as these… King’s Deryni, they might be called. With the right people we could have a public voice again in Gwynedd. Deryni showing that we’re not secretive sorcerers using our powers for our own benefit, but instead just as much loyal servants of the Haldane Kings as anyone else.”

“Servants who’re making some fairly challenging demands for their services. You mentioned that the Church had compromised on Deryni before, Anscom. If you’re thinking of the ‘court Deryni’ of King Alroy and King Javan’s reigns, remember that they were kept in line by using their families as hostages – and I think practically all of them wound up dead anyway – burnt at the stake in many cases.”

“I don’t deny that it’s a risk,” Anscom admitted. “And as I said, I’m willing to take that risk myself. Festil knows we’re here, so the secrecy that’s shrouded us has passed in that regard. Perhaps it’s time now for some of us to step forward and show the rest of Gwynedd what Deryni do stand for.”

“Anscom has a point.”

Donal shot a dismayed look at Bethwyn.

“I don’t claim to understand affairs in Gwynedd as well as you or Walther, Donal. But if this is a chance to ease the situation of our people in Gwynedd then I don’t believe we should dismiss it out of hand.”

Judicael placed his ivory wand of office on the table. “I believe we’ve too little information to make a decision on either course of action at this point. It’s very hard to judge whether Anscom’s plan will aid our people or trigger a further backlash and it remains unclear if we can provide concrete assistance in activating King Urien’s Haldane powers – assuming of course that the potential remains, which is a third question. Not all hereditary traits breed true after all. What do you think, Camille?”

“Quite correct, Judicael. I suggest that Donal approach Urien and volunteer himself as a loyal Deryni, if he’s willing to take that risk. There’s no need to broach either plan at this point but I’m sure having a Deryni to advise him would be useful to the King. If you can arrange a transfer of your services from the Earl of Carthane to the King then it’ll place you right at the heart of the Haldane Court.”

“I think that that’s a manageable risk.”

“You’re a good boy, Donal. Don’t hesitate to flee if things go amiss though.” Camille removed her eyeglasses and closed her eyes in thought. “I believe I can find some excuse to visit Coroth. Crossing the Southern Sea is a trial but I knew Duke Jernian’s wife well. Walther, I want you to sound out your cousin Euan. He and Jernian are most likely to be able to advise us on whether the church would bend to Anscom’s suggestion.”

“Are you sure you can manage a crossing - two crossings really?” asked Judicael warily.

Camille shook her head slightly. “I don’t plan on doing anything energetic, Judicael. And it’s not as if I’m prone to sea-sickness. Don’t fuss for heaven’s sake.”

“Alright then. While you’re doing that, I’ll see what’s in my Order’s archives from Father Joram. Anscom, please tell Ebor who you think might have your grandfather’s papers and I’ll give him directions to the old refuge. It’s a lot of running around, Ebor, but you can visit a few places near Valoret that used to have Transfer Portals. It’s likely Prince Cinhil will move there to be closer to the Torenthi border before long and knowing if we can come and go from the area in a hurry would be better to know now.”

.o0o.

Vasco was surprised to find the northern knight he’d met the day before waiting outside the stables when he came down to check the horses were ready to depart for Candor Rhea. “Sir Donal? Is there a problem.”

“There’s no problem as such.” Donal gestured into the stables. “I was hoping we might discuss a certain matter you mentioned to me yesterday.”

“Yesterday… ah, that matter. Perhaps we should step in and talk while I’m examining the horses.”

“Indeed, let me assist you with that.”

Vasco waited until they were in the stall with the Prince’s prized R’Kassi stallion. “The matter we discussed yesterday? I presume it’s not Earl Godwyn making timely plans to return to Candor Rhea?”

“I believe he’s actually away already. I’m to follow with his gear shortly, unless certain matters suggest I’m needed elsewhere.” Donal stepped deeper into the stall and knelt to examine the stallion’s rear hoof. In the shadows it was hard to see… until a flickering sphere blue flame leapt to life in his cupped hand.

Vasco stepped back in surprise, his right hand reaching for his sword but halting when the northern knight took no aggressive action. Instead he made a rueful expression and concentrated. A moment later the light’s hue shifted to a soothing green.

By the time Donal was done with the hooves – and banished the light as easily as he’d conjured it – Vasco had recovered most of his composure. “I can see why you didn’t introduce yourself like that in the Cathedral.”

“Very true. I don’t believe Prince Cinhil would want his daughter’s funeral to be capped by a Deryni burning. But today is another day, Sir Vasco. I’ve put my life into your hands, what will you do now?”

“Well given the Deryni’s reported capabilities, I’m afraid I can’t really simply walk you up to the King and introduce you.” Vasco moved along to the next stall. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet you. Once we’re done here I suggest you continue to Candor Rhea as planned. I’ll inform the King and he can make arrangements to meet you under discreet circumstances if we can get you back here on some pretext.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“I hope you understand that just because you’ve revealed you’re Deryni doesn’t mean you’re going to be trusted unconditionally.”

Donal nodded. “I can’t say that I enjoy being treated as a suspicious character but I can’t blame you either. I wouldn’t put it beneath King Kyprian to have assassins poised to kill his Majesty, or even his heirs. Although letting you know I’m a Deryni would negate a lot of my effectiveness in that case.”

“I take it you’re offering to help,” Vasco added. “I just want to be clear.”

The Deryni crossed himself. “I swear that whatever else I may be, I am King Urien’s loyal subject. My only reason for revealing myself to you is so that I may serve him to the full extent of my abilities.”

“That’s good enough for me.” He paused. “Of course this will probably mean Prince Cinhil won’t reach Candor Rhea as soon as I suggested yesterday. I hope Earl Godwyn won’t be too unhappy about that.”

“He’s not an unreasonable man, he’ll understand that sometimes plans change.”

.o0o.

“You’re a resourceful man, Sir Vasco.” Urien beamed in relief. “Deryni assistance should help a great deal.”

“I can’t claim to be more than fortunate, Sire. Indeed, it’s more that Sir Donal sought me out than that I had any success in finding him.”

The king nodded sagely. “Not so very different from other young men who come to court, hoping to make a name for themselves. Or do you have any specific suspicions about him?”

Vasco spread his hands. “No lord. I met him only briefly on two occasions but he’s done nothing to make me doubt he’s honest. That’s little enough to base a judgement of his character though.”

“He’ll be known well enough to the camp at Candor Rhea,” proposed Cinhil from his seat by the fire. The prince wore light mail beneath his grey tunic embroidered with Haldane Lions and oak leaves. “Once we’re there, you can seek testimonials as to his character.”

“On what excuse should I ask these questions, Your Highness? If it’s taken that he is suspected of disloyalty then we might well place him in danger.”

“It’s very simple,” declared Urien. “I may have delegated command of the army to Prince Cinhil, but naturally I need a trustworthy knight to act as my aide and carry messages between us. Sir Donal’s reputation is hardly besmirched if it’s known he’s being considered for such a position and – all being well – it will readily explain why I may be closeted privately with him at times, to receive confidential messages.”

“Yes, that would cover it,” agreed Cinhil. “Godwyn may not appreciate losing one of his officers to your service but I have a particular commission in mind for him which should soften the blow.”

“He’s young for a command, isn’t he?”

“He’s able enough for the role I have in mind, father. Although while we’re on that topic, he’d be of an age to receive the accolade of knighthood next Christmas. I have in mind to ask that you knight perhaps a dozen men his age who’ve shown me their worth. That mark of royal favour will ease the pride of some I set them in charge of.”

“That’s rarely done, even for those of royal blood, Cinhil. If you think it is best, but be sure they’re young men of strong character ready for the demands of knighthood.”

“I’ve given this due thought, father and I’ll only bring them forward if a knight of repute agrees to stand as their sponsor. Perhaps the Easter Court would be a suitable time for the ceremony.”

“That sounds feasible. It’s likely enough the high passes will be clear not long after Easter so we couldn’t leave preparations much later.” The King pulled a furred mantle from the back of his chair and laid it across his lap. “Put another faggot on the fire, Sir Vasco. Either winters get colder every year or my blood is thinning.”

Vasco obediently moved more wood from the bin next to the hearth and built up the fire blazing there.

Urien nodded gratefully to him. “Will we be ready when Marek comes?” he asked his son.

“We’re better off than we were few months ago. Duke Jernian reports no sign of troops mustering in Fathane so he needs no reinforcements. North of him, the Earl of Lendour’s reinforcements from Carthmoor should have reached him so we’ve a thousand men waiting behind the high passes. Ivaar Howell confirms that the Rhendall levies have joined with his army in Eastmarch so there’s a thousand men ready if Marek comes through the Coldoire pass. Duke Tresham’s sent part of the Claibourne levy under his son Geoffrey to help secure Marley and his second son Keene has the rest ready to move by sea either to support Marley or to join the Purple March levies mustering at Grecotha, whichever we order. The Duke himself is on his way to Valoret. Once he’s there, he’ll take command in the east.”

“That’s only six thousand men even counting the ecclesiastical knights at Valoret. Are you sure they can hold Marek back if he presses hard?”

“The most we can really hope for in the early stages is to keep him out of central Gwynedd. I can’t expect Duke Tambert and Earl Richard to move their forces east until we’ve dealt with Meara and we need those men before we can face Marek in battle. The men here and at Candor Rhea are our reserve. Unless someone makes a mistake we’re going to be marching troops back and forth for weeks before we’ve assembled sufficiently to offer battle on favourable terms.”

.o0o.

Sir Godwyn Pirek-Haldane, Earl of Carthane, self-consciously adjusted the white belt signifying his knighthood before stepping out of the tent he’d been living out of at Candor Rhea. Piran, following him, almost ran into him when the Earl paused once he was in the morning light.

Blinking at the sunlight, it took Piran a moment to recognise the cause. There by the fire was Donal MacAthan, wearing the Haldane’s badge on his shoulder but otherwise much as he had been.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Sir Donal. Should you not be in Rhemuth with the King?” There was perhaps a little sharpness still to the Earl’s tongue. He could hardly dispute that the King’s service must take precedence over a mere Earl’s but it still stung to have one of his trusted officers depart his side.

Donal bowed. “The King sent me here, sir, although I’m glad for the chance to wish you a safe journey into the Connait.” He produced a folded letter from his tunic. “Also I had a thought to help you in securing meetings with the Connaiti lords. My father and the late Master of Trevalga were friends. Lord Ebor has few men of his own but I’ve written this to him, asking he use his good offices to smooth your way with lords who might be inclined to hire out their armsmen to Gwynedd’s cause.”

Godwyn blinked and then smiled, accepting the letter. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sir Donal.”

“I realise that taking service of the King must have seemed ungrateful of me, sir. I wouldn’t want you to think I could ever forget the great kindness you and your father have shown me over the years.”

“Think nothing of it, Donal.” The last ice in the young Earl’s tone melted away. “I’ve no doubt you’ll serve the King as loyally and well as you have me.”

“I hope so, sir. And on that note, his majesty realised that you might be a little shorthanded with my sudden departure so he was hoping you might accept the services of one of his squires on your current commission.”

“It’s a good thing you caught me before we left then. Is he ready to accompany us right away?”

Donal smiled. “Fully packed and minding a packhorse with some extra supplies the Queen thought you might find useful crossing the Cloomes this early in the year.”

“Very good then.” Godwyn offered Donal his hand. “I wish you well in the King’s service Donal. Sir Piran will find our new squire a place in the party.”

Piran bowed and followed Donal back to where the northerner had left his own horse. “I think his grace will miss you more once we’re on the road. There’s no one else with your knack for getting a campfire going under even the worst conditions.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. There’s plenty of inns on the roads up to the Connait and they’re a very hospitable people when they know you’re looking to hire mercenaries and therefore have money to spend.” He looked up as they reached the horses. “Ho, Prince Jaron!”

Piran bit back an exclamation of surprise. Prince Jaron was the squire joining them? The King’s youngest son? Surely not.

The youth on the horse was the right age though, fourteen or near enough, and he had the Haldane looks with raven dark hair cut in a severe bowl-cut and grey eyes. “Is all well, Sir Donal?”

“It is indeed, Your Highness. Sir Piran here will be taking you back to join the Earl’s party. He’s a good friend of mine so stay close to him and you won’t go far wrong in the Earl’s service.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Sir Piran.” The boy leant over, an engaging smile lighting up his face, and offered his hand.

Piran accepted and shook it firmly. “Has Sir Donal checked your gear for the road?”

“Very thoroughly, sir,” Jaron promised, slipping effortlessly into the role of squire without any air of royal pretension.

“Then I’m sure you’re as ready as I can make you. The Earl might want to move you around the party once he gets a feel for you.” And once he knows the mysterious squire being added to the party is his royal cousin. “But you’ll be riding with me for now.”

“Thank you, Sir Piran.”

Donal mounted his own horse and accepted the reins from Jaron. “Good luck on the road, Piran.”

“Good luck at the court. That can be even more dangerous I’m told. Especially when someone’s risen unexpectedly to royal favour.”

His friend laughed out loud. “You’re a wise man. Harken to him, Prince Jaron. You’ll learn a lot in the next few weeks.” Donal cantered away before Piran could think of a suitable rejoinder.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

 _Jonathon smote the garrison of the Philistines that was in Geba, and the Philistines heard of it. Then Saul blew the trumpet throughout the land, saying, “Let the Hebrews hear.”_  
1 Samuel 13:3

“The last letter from Earl Godwyn indicates he’s convinced the Prince of Pardiac to let him hire a hundred mounted men at arms. That brings his force up to more than four hundred.”

Cinhil rubbed his chin. “I’m sure Pardiac can raise more soldiers than that.”

“Godwyn believes at least as many have already been hired. He saw signs of barracks that were occupied all winter but vacated this spring. He doesn’t speculate who’s been hiring but there aren’t that many possibilities.”

“Jolyon of Meara, no doubt. Well we knew some of that was going to happen. Hopefully Godwyn’s efforts will raise us enough forces to at least counter those going north. We’ve deeper pockets than Prince Jolyon has, after all.”

“So does Torenth unfortunately.” Vasco folded the letter and started for the chest where the Prince’s correspondence was stored, only to pause as a shout went up from outside.

“Find out what that is, Vasco.”

The knight barely had to step outside before he saw one of the royal squires leaping down from a horse that looked almost spent. The boy – he looked barely old enough to have been promoted from page – had his despatch case open by the time Vasco reached him. “Sir Vasco, I’ve an urgent message for Prince Cinhil!”

“He’s right here in his tent, so don’t panic. Is there a verbal message too?”

The boy nodded and Vasco took his shoulder. “Come along then.” He glanced around at the eager looking men drawn by the commotion. “Take care of the horse. He seems to have been ridden hard.”

Inside the tent Cinhil looked up and his eyes went immediately to the dispatch case. “News from the court?” he asked, wiping dry the nib of the quill he’d been writing with.

“Yes Sire. Duke Tambert gave me this, sealed. He said he’d sent pigeons to Valoret and Coroth to spread the news but I should.”

Cinhil accepted the parchment and broke the wax seal. His lips tightened as he read the contents and then he nodded. “Good lad. You didn’t spare your horse, I’m guessing.”

“The Duke said it was important.”

“He was right. Get some food in you lad and we’ll get you a fresh horse. You’ll take my reply back to Rhemuth as soon as I’ve penned it.”

Vasco waited until the boy had left. “It’s happened then?”

“An army under Festil’s banners marched through the Dunadall pass two days ago and stormed Rengarth. They didn’t have the garrison to hold them back but one man got away. The banners indicate Marek and both his sons were there and perhaps three thousand men.”

“Only three thousand? We were expecting more.”

“That could just be a vanguard, or possibly Kyprian is moving to take the other high passes as well. Either way it’s more than Euan Cynfyn can handle on his own. He’s planning to fall back gradually towards his own lands and if need be into the mountain passes towards Dhassa or Caerrorie.”

“He should have enough men to hold those passes against three thousand.”

“Yes,” the prince agreed. “But Marek’s no fool. I’ll have to send reinforcements east now.” He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment before him and dipped his quill in the ink again. “Baron Gillis has twelve hundred infantry waiting around Rhemuth. If he marches…” He looked out of the tent flap at the afternoon light. “Tomorrow is as early as possible really. A week to reach the Lendour Mountains if he follows the Molling River. By then we’ll have more news.”

“Weren’t those going to be the reserve for Duke Jernian if Marek strikes south at Corwin? The Festils have historically been more than a little vengeful towards those they see as traitors to their cause.”

“Unfortunately we don’t know if he is a traitor to their cause. If Marek does turn south, Jernian should be able to hold out against three thousand long enough Earl Euan and Baron Gillis to march south, join forces with the ecclesiastical levies mustering near Dhassa and relieve him. And if Kyprian throws his main forces across the Western River into Corwin then any reinforcements I send will be far too little and too late.”

.o0o.

“So that’s what we know at the moment,” Donal concluded. There were bags under the knight’s eyes and he was unshaven. The sudden orders to put the Baron of Danoc’s army on the march had required herculean efforts from dusk the previous day until almost as late the next day as the last of Danoc’s supply wagons left the city. Only once that was done had Donal managed to find a moment to slip away to the rest of the council. A fatigue banishing spell let him continue for now but that was strictly a temporary solution. “Do you have any more recent information, Walther?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Walther toyed with his signet ring. “Either by luck or planning, the Earls of Derry and Carcashale were both in Rengarth when it fell. With the smaller passes in their respective lands it’s likely they had some idea Tolan soldiers were in the area and wanted to compare notes, Rengarth’s well placed for both of them.”

“Were they killed?”

“No, but they’re dead now. Once Marek seized the fortress he decided it was the perfect place to declare himself rightful King of Gwynedd and demand the submission of the Earls.”

Anscom nodded. “It’s where Imre – his great-grandfather, not his father – died forty years ago. I take it the Earls weren’t inclined to be co-operative?”

“I presume not since Marek sent their heads to my cousin in care of a herald calling on him to make submission.”

“Somehow I can’t see your cousin being inclined to accept that offer.”

Walther shook his head. “No. Marek’s done us that favour at least. He’s made it clear what we’ll be dealing with if he does triumph: a king who brooks no dissent from his vassals. And Duke Tambert will be furious: the Earl of Derry was his cousin, which makes this a bloodfeud. The Cassani still take those seriously.”

“He was King Urien’s cousin too, through his mother,” Anscom added pedantically. “I don’t suppose he had anything more to say about the possibility of stepping forward as a Deryni?”

“He’s not in favour, Anscom. The Torenthi herald was Deryni and he had to argue very hard on the traditional immunity of heralds to persuade his vassals that they shouldn’t hand the man over to the Church for a trial and execution as a witch. He’s willing to offer the King his private assistance if it’s absolutely necessary but that’s as far as it goes.”

Anscom looked to Camille and she shook her head. “Jernian isn’t inclined either. It’s hard to say exactly what he has in mind, he’s excellent shields, but he indicated he’s already had to take extreme measures to hide the training he’s given his son and grandson. If anything that pressure may leave him inclined to turn, if not against Urien himself, then at least against Gwynedd’s Church. The prospect of attainder and being burned at the stake certainly hasn’t sweetened him towards them.”

“It’s hard to imagine that it could,” conceded Bethwyn. “Father Judicael, do you have any progress?”

“I have in fact.” Placing a bundle of parchment on the table; the knight of the Anvil, gestured over them. “It’s not precisely a full instruction but Father Joram did leave us some mention of how the powers were invested and how they manifested in all three of King Cinhil’s sons. It seems Cinhil set the potential in all three of them shortly before he died. He intended that only Alroy would then activate the potential, with his brothers essentially primed as back-up, but for whatever reason King Alroy never manifested any sign of Deryni powers before his death. Possibly for the best given how tightly he was under the control of his regents at the time. Both Javan and Rhys, however, had demonstrable shields even before Joram arranged ritual activation of their powers.”

“That sounds interesting,” Walther mused. “Have you noticed anything of the sort, Donal?”

“Not shields, but Urien and his sons don’t appear to have undergone the initial ritual so that might be asking too much. They seem to have a degree of sensitivity though – Prince Malcolm may have the same but he’s at Valoret’s seminary so if you don’t mind I’d rather not risk doing any testing on him.”

“That would be an unreasonable risk.” Judicael tapped the papers. “Does anyone else have any information that may apply? With Marek on the move we don’t have the luxury of further contemplation, we have to decide if we press on with this now.”

Camille nodded. “I’ve traced some record of similar empowerment rituals in the East. Predominantly they’re used to bring those with a thin Deryni bloodline to full operancy but the principles. From what I’ve found, it may be possible to carry out the ritual with only a single Deryni to oversee it. There would need to be at least one more assistant but that wouldn’t necessarily require power as such, it’s more a matter of logistics. That could certainly ease our exposure. It’s a daunting working though.”

Donal nodded. “You’re right about daunting, but bringing three more Deryni into the palace would have been something of a challenge. I’ve rarely been so glad to be wrong as I am about that requirement.”

No one else spoke up, so Judicael raised his staff and Camille mirrored him. “Firstly then, Anscom’s proposal to offer Urien the services of Deryni in return for his explicit protection of them and a relaxation of the civil provisions of the Statutes of Ramos.”

Bethwyn gave Anscom an apologetic look. “I’m sorry but no one who’s been to Gwynedd seems inclined to believe it would be accepted.”

The old priest nodded sadly and looked around the table. “Absent any support for the plan, I withdraw my proposal.”

“If I thought it might be accepted we might be able to revisit the idea. Let the current fears of Festil’s Deryni fade and perhaps royal patronage for a few Deryni might be possible,” Donal suggested diplomatically.

“The next question then is if we go ahead and support Urien Haldane in assuming the Haldane potential. Assuming we’re able to, that is. Even if he only developed shields, that would still leave him some defence against Marek of Festil.”

“I believe you know where I stand,” Donal answered.

To his surprise Anscom nodded too. “I agree. Absent direct Deryni support he’ll need this.”

“It’s a risk that he may alienate his lords and bishops,” cautioned Bethwyn. “Do you have a plan for handling that, Donal? And for keeping the Council at a safe remove from this?”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary to tell Urien about the Council at all.” Donal looked at Anscom. “I think the simplest way would be to bring you in as a correspondent, Anscom.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t think we need to reveal your true identity but it’d be perfectly true to say you’re a great-great-grandson of Saint Camber and offering assistance out of respect for your forefather’s support of the Cinhil Haldane…”

“Hm.” The priest sat back. “So you want me to devise this ritual for Urien then?”

“Devise it and help me carry it out, if possible. Let’s be honest, I’ve probably the least experience of any of us in these workings. Your experience would be invaluable.”

“Well I said I’d visit Gwynedd myself if need be for my own plan. I can hardly offer less now, can I.” Anscom crossed himself. “God watch over us. Bethwyn’s right, if Urien’s found to be ‘dabbling with witchcraft’, the Curia will probably denounce him outright.”

“The possibility’s been raised. It’s one reason Prince Cinhil’s been careful to stay out of Rhemuth while we work on this. In the worst case scenario, he can plausibly deny all knowledge. He’s not exactly happy with the idea but Urien gave him a royal command to denounce him if the worst comes to the worst. It’ll be damaging but as long as he can’t be connected to this, he can take the throne himself. Without a son of his own, Prince Malcolm would be heir and he’s even safer – the clerical supervision of the last two years will prove absolutely that he hasn’t been involved with Deryni.”

“I hope you have a less drastic notion. Even under those circumstances, the Haldane’s position would be direly weakened if Cinhil’s forced to usurp the throne from his own father. And he’d hardly be pleased if we cause that with some blunder.”

“Assuming that the ritual succeeds, all we’ll need to cover for is anything Urien displays publically and barring an outright duel arcane or use in battle, we should be able to avoid that.”

“Those could be damning enough.”

“Not necessarily.” Donal smirked. “For once the Church’s fear of Deryni will work in our favour. The church have been formally asked to invoke God’s aid. Specifically to ask that he be ‘Shield and Sword to our goodly King Urien against the sorcery of the Festil Pretender’. Bishop Jashan’s already made it the central theme of prayers in his diocese. By the end of May, every priest in Gwynedd will be leading their flocks in prayers to that effect.”

“That seems a little cynical,” Judicael observed reluctantly. “But I see where you’re going with that. If… no, let’s be honest. When Urien has to use magic in battle it’ll be seen as God’s favour.”

“Torenthi Deryni will recognise the truth of course, but they won’t have any credibility in Gwynedd, which is what we’re primarily concerned about. The Curia may suspect, but how can they challenge what’s evidently exactly the miracle they’ve been praying for?”

“That is clever. You may have forgotten one thing though. Duke Jernian will recognise it too and he might see it as license to use his powers openly as well. If Urien lets him get away with it, it’s almost inevitable the Church will react.” Camille shook her head. “If Jernian acts and the Church compare what he does to Urien’s actions this could still end very badly.”

“Do you see any other way?” Donal asked impatiently. “Anscom’s plan is the only other way and we’ve agreed the time isn’t right for that.”

“Peace, Donal.” Judicael glared at the younger man he subsided. “We agree it’s the only feasible plan. Seeing these problems is the first step to working out how to counter them. Could we confide in the Duke perhaps?”

Walther shook his head. “His Grace the Duke of Corwyn is an enigma. There are days I think even he isn’t sure where his allegiances lie.”

.o0o.

Hundreds of miles to the south, that very enigma was confounding his son and heir.

“It’s too early to commit our forces,” Jernian de Corwyn insisted as he and Stiofan stood atop one of the great towers of Coroth Castle and watched their levies adding to the constant bustle of the Castle’s day to day business. “How many of our scouts have come back from scouting the east bank of the Western River? Not one. Kyprian could have another army the size of the one hounding Euan of Lendour, just waiting for us to leave the path open. The first we’d know of it would be his vanguard reaching the river.”

“He could, yes.” Forty years old this spring, Stiofan had had cause over the years to wonder if Prince Cinhil ever felt as impatient with the King as he sometimes felt towards his father. “Or he could have them all striking into Eastmarch and our levies are frozen uselessly in place for fear of something that isn’t there. For God’s sake, father, even if he had six thousand men hidden in Fathane, Coroth Castle’s never fallen to siege and it can be supplied by sea indefinitely.”

“I’m sure that would be a great consolation to the folk of the city,” his father shot back. “Not to mention the towns and villages in their path. I’ve not kept the peace in Corwyn all these years to leave them at Festil’s questionable mercy.”

Stiofan leant against one of the crenulations that ringed the tower. “That peace is as much Urien Haldane’s work as anyone else’s. Without a stable Gwynedd we’d be open to all the petty squabbles that’ve bled the states of the Southern Sea for as long as anyone can remember.”

“You might think that, but I don’t recall that being the case when I was a boy and Corwyn was a free and independent duchy.”

“I don’t know whose childhood you’re remember father, but even then wasn’t it the case that we had Gwynedd’s protection? No one could attack us from the north and west without the Haldane’s consent and if we were ever threatened out of the east or south then Gwynedd would defend us rather than see a hostile power on their doorstep. So much for our independence!”

“We were independent, son. Free of benighted Church that hates and fears you and I for what we are. Free of being Urien Haldane’s lapdogs. If he thinks he can save his kingdom by abandoning Corwyn then do you think he’d hesitate?”

“He’s certainly no cause to show us loyalty if we show him none. You know what they whisper about us already. If we refuse to march our levies to join him he’d have the perfect excuse to attaint our House and then where would we be?”

“Oh I doubt he could afford to do that. Not when he has to fight Torenth already. He’d need to raise another army against us when he’s already stretched. No. He’ll wait, and so will I. And when I have to move in – don’t worry, son, I know I can’t wait forever – then the King of Gwynedd will know he owes me his throne.”

Stiofan turned and looked at his father. “Which King will that be, father?”

He saw surprise on the old man’s face and then approval. “Ah, you grown sharper, Stiofan. That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Lowering his voice, Stiofan hissed: “You’re discussing treason.”

“Treason to whom? There are two men declaring themselves rightful Kings and only God knows which will end up on top.” Jernian smiled thinly. “There’s no use jumping too soon and risk making a mistake.”

“You’ve taken oaths to Urien. I’ve taken oaths to him too.”

“And on balance, I think he’s been a better king than Marek would be,” the Duke conceded. “Don’t look so surprised. It was his father that forced me to become a vassal to the Haldanes. I’m not so mean-spirited as to blame him for his father’s deed.”

“Then why are you even considering siding with Marek?”

“Because he isn’t proposing to be my King.”

Stiofan jerked. “You’ve been in communication with him!”

“I can hardly stop the man sending me letters, now can I? Thus far he’s indicated that he’d accept our former independence, which isn’t too generous of him since it would require no effort at all. Then again, all he’s asking for for in exchange is that I do nothing. I have to wonder what he might offer me when he wants my active support? Carthmoor perhaps? Add those lands to Corwyn and to all practical purposes I’d be ruling the full extent of what was once the Kingdom of Mooryn.”

“Please tell me you haven’t suggested that to him,” Stiofan exclaimed.

“And give him a letter so incriminating to use against me? My dear boy, did I drop you on your head as a child?”

Stiofan shook his head and turned his head south, looking across harbour and out over the sea. “No, but you did tell me that straddling a fence could get uncomfortable in a hurry.”

“The art there, Stiofan, is knowing when it’s wise to get off.” Jernian walked across and put his hand on Stiofan’s shoulder. “I know it’s frustrating, waiting for me to act. Waiting for me to stand aside and let you rule too, for that matter.”

“Father!” Stiofan froze, shocked. “I’d never…”

“Of course you thought that. It’s only natural. A man your age, raised to rule but not given the chance to. Imagine how poor Richard MacInnis’ sons must have felt before he went and outlived them all? Not that I think I’ll last as long as he did. But I’ve not spent all these years having the Haldane Court sneer and whisper at my back to let a chance like this pass. I’ll give you a Corwyn free of them for good or a Corwyn so high in their esteem that no one dares look at you sideways, the way they have me.”

.o0o.

It hadn’t occurred to Roisian before but for all the politics that swept through the great hall of Laas, she’d been sheltered from the consequences until now. Cor Culdi, ancient seat of the Earldom of Culdi, had been taken by storm and while the men who’d fallen within and without its walls had been removed for proper burial the stains of the short and savage battle lingered.

The apartments that had been made available to the women of the royal household had been spared that at least. The Earl of Culdi had elected to enter the Church and though he retained the title for life, a bequest from his uncle the late King Jasher, Jashan Haldane had never had a wife to bring here. The rooms for a Countess and her attendants were instead held ready for guests and being empty no one had bothered to defend them.

“Look at these hangings,” Annalind cried out, running one finger down the rich tapestry. “This Earl must have lived like a king to have rooms like this only for his guests.”

“They’re beautiful,” Roisian agreed with barely a glance, instead moving towards the window. This castle might not be equal in size to the palace at Laas but it compared well to many of the castles they’d stayed in as they swept north, one lord after another joining her father’s host until at last they crossed the border into Gwynedd. If this was residence of only one of Gwynedd’s great lords, did that mean they were all this wealthy?

“Girls.” Urracca clapped her hands as she entered the chamber.

“Mama, look at this tapestry, isn’t it grand?” Annalind took her mother by the hand and drew her to it. “May I take it home to Laas? It’s father’s now, isn’t it?”

“Silly girl. Don’t you remember that you’ll be marrying a prince? You’ll be able to take it with you as part of your dowry when you go to live with him.”

“Whichever prince it might be,” Roisian murmured.

Annalind shot her a pained look. The death of Prince Adolphus at the hands of a Haldane assassin had left her temporarily adrift, with no fiancée until one of the Torenthi ambassadors, having communicated somehow with his master through a trance-sleep, had proposed moving the engagement to the Prince’s nephew Marek, second son of King Marek. The sudden change had left Annalind weeping for days.

Urracca seized her firstborn daughter by the arm. “That was uncalled for, Roisian. Apologise to your sister immediately.”

Roisian ducked her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“I’m sorry Annalind. It’s just, Prince Marek must be on the march now with his father’s army and soon Prince Nikola will join him and what if they come to harm?”

The Princess sighed and drew both girls against her. “Alas, I can’t promise you that it couldn’t happen. Men die at war and it’s a woman’s lot to wait and pray that it isn’t her man that perishes. But we’re far more fortunate than most – our men are princes, well-armed and surrounded by their faithful soldiers. So we cannot show our fears or the wives of those at far greater hazard will also despair and that would never do.”

Briskly she stepped back and looked them over. “I’m glad to see you’re both still presentable.”

“We’re not little girls anymore, mother,” Annalind assured her.

“You’ll always be my little girls. Now then, the lords have almost all assembled down in great hall so we should go down to join your father.”

The three of them descended a side stair that had a discreet door leading into the Earl’s chamber behind the Great Hall. Not all order had been restored here, but the broken chairs had been removed and since seeing the room on arrival Roisian noted that the writing desk and the empty chests that once held the estate’s valuables had been moved aside.

Standing in the open space left behind, squarely on a rug that Roisian thought might have been woven in Kheldour and now covered up unsightly bloodstains, Jolyon turned and beamed at their arrival. He wore his armour, which had been cleaned and polished since the previous day’s battle (even if the floor hadn’t been) but no helm and rather than the mace he’d carried in battle earlier in the day the state sword of Meara, hilt studded with amber and a great emerald stone in the hilt, at his side.

“My lady,” he greeted Urracca, taking her hand and kissing it. She accepted it regally, as she did the salutes of the Prince’s companions.

The Earls of Kildaren and Cloome had long been Jolyon’s staunchest supporters and Roisian knew – though she’d always been careful to hide her knowledge – that at one time Lere Ramsay of Cloome had been a strong candidate for her hand. Though it hadn’t in the end been the match agreed upon, she felt on this occasion that he might need reminding of that fact for he gave her an admiring and perhaps even possessive look as he saluted her in turn after her mother.

“Two of the fairest flowers of Meara, am I not right gentlemen?” asked Jolyon fondly. “Come, let us join the feasting and remind my other loyal lords for what we fight.”

He took their mother’s arm and Loren Kincaid took Annalind’s, leaving Roisian no choice but to enter the hall upon the arm of Lere Ramsay. Within the hall, two long tables held what seemed to be almost every Baron and Earl in Meara, while at the head table her father’s own officials left room only for the four royals. Roisian was relieved when, having seated her, Ramsay had no choice but to move down to his place at the near end of one of the long tables, with Kincaid heading the other.

Her father stood before his own seat, to her left and rather than sitting he placed the sword before him on the high table and reached for the goblet set before him. “Welcome my friends, to Culdi. Welcome to Meara, for truly we have restored this long lost land to our own people. I’m sure you’re all eager to taste the fruits of our first victory here so I’ll speak only briefly and then Bishop Stewart will lead us in prayer.”

Raising his cup, Jolyon sniffed and then smiled appreciatively. “I hope your cups are full with the bounties donated us by poor Jashan Haldane, driven off with his tail between his legs, because I’ll begin with a toast. You may have heard that my daughter Annalind’s betrothed, Adolphus of Eastmarch, has sadly perished before the two could be wed. It’s with great joy I can now share with you now that just as Adolphus’ nephew Marek has inherited his uncle’s birthright, he has also stepped up and pledged that he shall marry my fair daughter in all honour. Let us all drink to their future happiness!”

There were a chorus of cries of approval before the cups were gulped from eagerly by the men.

“Secondly,” Jolyon announced. “I know there’s been talk that this victory is the extent of our campaign, and that having taken it, we’re here only to loot it and ride home, like the brigands the Haldanes like to call us.”

This time the voices raised were not in approval and Jolyon waved his hand for silence. “Well it’s nonsense,” he declared once some semblance of peace had been restored. “A hundred years ago, my cousin Ambert Quinnell broke a solemn pact, sworn between the two branches of our house, that one day Meara would be reunited. Instead of honouring that agreement, he sold his patrimony to the Haldanes. I tell you now, we’re here to redeem that oath. Redeem it and more. So I swear, I Jolyon, Prince of Meara, Prince of Cassan and Lord of the Purple March!”

There was a stunned silence. Cassan had once been part of Meara, and the Earldoms of Culdi and Kierney once part of Cassan, so the claim there was expected. But the Purple March, stretching along the south of the Gulf of Kheldour?

Lere Ramsay raised his goblet. “Hail Jolyon, Prince of Meara and Cassan, Lord of the Purple March.”

“Hail Jolyon the Conqueror!” agreed his brother James from beside him and the other lords raised their own cups to add their own salutes and accolades the newly stated ambitions of Roisian’s father.

.o0o.

The feast that followed went on well into the night but Urracca gave Jolyon a pointed look and stated her intention to withdraw once the balance of the intake began to favour ale, wine and other contents of the fled Bishop’s cellars rather than food.

The Prince insisted on drinking one more toast, to the women of House Quinnell before they could leave the table but at last Urracca extracted her daughters and the three of them retreated to chamber behind the great hall. Roisian saw shadows dance as their torches only half-lit the room.

“I shouldn’t have let your father insist on bringing you with him,” the princess said with a scathing look back towards the hall. “An army is no place for maidens like yourselves. I believe I’ll sleep with the two of you tonight. There’s no knowing how late your father will come to bed.”

The maids they’d brought with them had laid a fire in the bedchamber and Urracca must have been weary herself not to complain at how sleepy the women were as they helped their mistresses into night gowns and ushered them beneath the sheets. In irony that only Roisian seemed to feel, the warm coverlet was crimson and embroidered along the hems with the Haldane lion.

She slept at one side, Annalind in the centre and her mother on the other side. Soon the even breathing from beyond Annalind showed that Urracca had surrendered to sleep. Annalind, however, retained a measure of excitement from the feast and was slow to settle down.

“What has you so lively?” Roisian whispered sleepily after Annalind’s tossing and turning pushed her close to the edge of the mattress.

“I’m marrying a handsome young prince now,” her twin reminded her. “Not one nearly twice our age.”

“Very good, well done.” Roisian yawned. “Is that all?”

“Well there is one more thing.”

Urracca snorted briefly and both girls froze before realising it wasn’t a sign they’d disturbed her.

“I’m sure you won’t go to sleep without telling me, so go ahead.”

Annalind moved to whisper directly into Roisian’s ear. “If anything happened to Prince Festil, I’ll be marrying the next King of Gwynedd!”

“God forbid that either of our betrothed loses their elder brother,” Roisian replied after considering that.

“What? It’s not as if I wish him misfortune but you heard what mother said. Men die at war.”

“Yes, but if Prince Nikola’s brother dies, then he’ll be King Kyprian’s heir so I’d have to live with him on Torenth rather than Laas.”


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

 _Be sure of this, that if the head of the house had known at what time of the night the thief was coming, he would have been on the alert and would not have allowed his house to be broken into._  
Matthew 24:43

Not even the most thorough of wars leaves your time entirely full, Vasco had found. With little to do until more news arrived from the east, Cinhil had been called back to Rhemuth and promptly sequestered in the Queen’s gardens with Princess Rhetice. The girl had quite recovered from her sister’s death and had gladly set aside her dolls and burgeoning lessons in embroidery to play a game which appeared to involve running around the gardens, long dark hair unbound and trailing behind her like a flag, while her father chased after her, somehow never quite fast enough to catch the laughing girl.

Since this practise left no work for the Prince’s aide, Vasco had strayed as far as the butts and found Donal MacAthan steadily loosing shaft after shaft into the gold. Not wishing to disturb the other man, Vasco waited until Donal and used all the arrows in his quiver before approaching. “A fine performance, Sir Donal.”

The Deryni knight looked up and bowed to Vasco before rubbing his shoulder. “Thank you, Sir Vasco. I fear my duties of late have left me little time to practise.”

“It doesn’t seem to have hurt your aim.” Vasco walked with him to recover the arrows, admiring the fact that all twelve arrows had landed in a span that he could have covered with one hand.”

“My aim hasn’t suffered but my shoulder has.” Donal tugged carefully at a particularly well-embedded arrow, not wanting to damage the head. “I shouldn’t be feeling strained after less than an hour of practise.”

Vasco nodded. “If you’ll be riding with the King you may wish to work more with sword and lance. It’s a wasteof a fine horse-archer, but he’ll be surrounded by heavy cavalry.”

“Why do you think I’ve had so little practise of late? What time I’ve had to spare has been mostly spent working at the lance.”

When they reached the firing posts again, another man stood waiting for the butts to be clear.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Vasco offered with a bow. “I hadn’t realised you were waiting.”

“We’re always waiting these days,” Duke Tambert answered. “Waiting for news from the east or from the west for that matter?” He gestured to the bow case beside him. “I don’t see a bow for you, Sir Vasco. Would you care to borrow my spare. You’re about my height so it may suit well enough.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

The three men took their marks, each carrying twelve arrows. Since Tambert had only brought one quiver, Vasco drove the tips of his arrows into the grass so they stood upright at his side.

“What say you, gentlemen. Shall we make this a sporting matter? A silver penny each, and the best of us takes all?”

Vasco sighed, mentally ceding his penny to Donal already. “I can stretch to that, Your Highness.”

“Aye, I’m not too proud to take your coin, Your Highness,” Donal added with a grin.

Tambert gave him an amused look. “Very good then. It’s a wager.” He drew back his bow and loosed his first shaft, spitting the gold exactly.

Vasco was tangentially aware that the men either side of him were shooting faster than he but he concentrated methodically on each shot, determined that if he was going to lose then he’d at least put his best into the contest. Adjusting for the unfamiliar bow took him three shots but all at least they were all on the butt and his other shafts were within the red circle – four striking the gold.

Checking to either side he saw that Donal had matched his earlier performance but so too, to Vasco’s surprise, had the Duke of Cassan. He’d heard many things of Tambert Fitz-Arthur Quinnell but that he was a master archer was not one of them.

“That was well shot, Sir Donal,” the Duke admitted graciously. “I can’t tell from here which of us had the tightest cluster.”

“Shall I give you a silver ha’penny each then?”

Tambert laughed. “Not at all. Let’s get closer and see first if either looks the better group. And if not, why then we’ll need to shoot again.”

They walked closer and Vasco reclaimed his arrows while the other two examined each other’s groups. “I can’t tell,” admitted the Duke. “What do you say, Sir Vasco?”

“I can’t see much between them, Your Highness. I could cover either group with my hand and I couldn’t say that either of you had the most arrows closest to the centre.”

“There’s nothing for it then.” Tambert started pulling his arrows loose of the butts. “One arrow each, perhaps, Sir Donal?”

“That sounds fair, Your Highness. And on the same butt so we can compare them easily.”

They walked back and Tambert took the first shot. Glancing at Donal, Vasco saw that the Deryni’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion as he watched the Duke take aim. The shot was a splendid one, striking dead centre of the gold. “Hah, that’ll be one to beat,” Tambert noted. “You’ll have earned your prize if you can get closer than that, Sir Donal.”

“I can but try.” Donal raised his own bow and picked carefully from his arrows. Having drawn he waited a long moment at full extension before loosing his shaft. The arrow plunged into the butt so close to Tambert’s that Vasco could barely tell there were two arrows there and not just one.”

“By god that’s close,” Tambert admitted. They walked back to the butts and the Duke gave forth an oath that his confessor would probably chide him for. The second arrow had come so close to the first that it had shaved away one of the fletchings on Tambert’s arrow. “Egad, sir, I’ll call that your win. I’ve not seen a shot that fine since my grandmother passed away.” Tambert produced a penny and handed it to Donal with a smile.

“Your grandmother?”

“Aye. She was a fine archer when she had the mind. A veritable terror when she could be coaxed out on a hunt with her ladies. Father told me he thought she found the hunts boring and became so good so she’d have them over with as quickly as possible.”

“Well, Your Highness, I’d say you’ve inherited her talents. Who’s to say that if I’d shot first I might not be the one with a ruined shaft?”

“Well she did give me some pointers when I was a boy.” Tambert turned as he heard his title called from the entrance to the yard. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Placing his bow alongside the one Vasco was returning to the case he walked briskly over to the approaching page.

Vasco leant close to Donal as he handed over his own penny. “Were you… doing something?”

“Only for that last shot,” the borderer said in a distracted voice. “I think he might have been too.”

“What?” Vasco gulped and lowered his voice. “Are you saying Duke Tambert’s a…”

“Well, perhaps a little. I didn’t pick up any shields or the other usual signs. Perhaps he has a touch of Deryni blood in him. Cassan and the other highlands were a refuge for the Deryni long before… Oh Lord, I don’t think he’s had good news.”

Tambert’s face was indeed thunderous as he returned for his bow. “You’d best both come with me,” he growled. “The King’s called his council – such of us as are here in Rhemuth. He may want you close to hand, Sir Donal, and no doubt Prince Cinhil will want Sir Vasco too.”

Pages and squires were running to send out instructions and bring back replies as Tambert crossed the great hall and led the two knights up to the doors of the Royal Council’s chamber. The heavy table of black wood stretched the length of the chamber with windows along one side for light. A bench opposite provided space for aides and officers not members of the Council to sit and Donal moved along to sit near at hand to the King while Vasco found a place near the foot of the table where Prince Cinhil’s chair was for the moment empty.

That gap was filled a moment later when the Prince arrived, his tunic grass-stained and hair ruffled. His manner was brisk though and he closed the door firmly behind him.

With the Earl Marshal absent in Valoret, Duke Tambert called the council to order. Beside himself, King Urien and Prince Cinhil only Constable Fulbert, Archbishop Marcus and Sir Allen FitzOsberne were present – not even half their full number.

“Lest the messages haven’t been sufficient, my brother the Bishop of Grecotha has sent an urgent message,” the King informed them. “It seems Jolyon of Meara has made his own move – most probably he’s only now been informed that Festil has crossed the border. A substantial Mearan force has seized Culdi. The garrison was quite modest but Jashan informs me his officers believe it’ll require more than the levies assembled at Grecotha to drive the Mearans back across the border.”

“I don’t believe we should drive them back.” Eyes looked down the table to where Prince Cinhil was sitting, eyes half-closed in thought.

“Please speak on, Cinhil,” his father encouraged him.

“If we push him back, he’ll just come back through another mountain pass and we’ll have to keep forces ready to repel him when we need our full strength in the east.” Cinhil looked up. “My brother Jaron and the Earl of Carthane should be almost at Trevalga by now. I propose to take all the horse mustered at Candor Rhea and join forces with him. Meanwhile we can send word to bring the Cassan levies south to Kierney and if Duke Tambert rides quickly he can join uncle Jashan and the army at Grecotha. That’ll give us more than three thousand men north of Jolyon and almost two thousand south of him.”

The Prince brought his hands together firmly. “Then we crush them between us and teach the Mearans a firm lesson. Break their army and remove Jolyon as a threat once and for all.”

“That could go poorly if Jolyon manages to bring his army to bear on one of the two forces without the other. You’ll be particularly vulnerable, Prince Cinhil,” warned Fulbert. “We don’t know his strength and you could be badly outnumbered if you don’t join forces with the northern force first.”

“If the worst comes to the worst, my only infantry will be that with Jaron. They can fort up in one of our castles and our cavalry should be able to stay ahead of the Mearans. I seriously doubt if there are a thousand heavy horse in all Meara.”

“It also places you well out of touch with the rest of the army,” Tambert noted. “If something happens in the east you’ll be out of contact.”

“That’s why Duke Tresham is at Valoret. As Earl Marshal he’s my second in command and I’ve written instructions to him that cover what I hope are all the likely possibilities for Torenthi action.”

Urien nodded and rose to his feet. “My lords, I’ve entrusted command of our armies to Prince Cinhil. The decision is his and has been made. So too is my own. I’ll ride north to Candor Rhea with Prince Cinhil and then north-east to Valoret. We need to concentrate our leadership closer to events and Valoret is the obvious centre of command for the north-east. Even if the weight of Torenthi action is to the south, it’ll leave us placed to accompany the army south down the Grande River after them.”

He looked at the Constable. “I know Rhemuth is safe in your hands, Fulbert, but my wife and granddaughter are also in your care. If I don’t return, if the worst comes to the worst, make sure they’re on a ship to Fallon. Breida will make sure King Tancrede extends his protection to Jaroni and Rhetice. We can retake Rhemuth but I’ll not see the women of my House endangered.”

“My lord, I will protect them at any cost.”

The archbishop cleared his throat. “Sire, I’ll join you in riding to Valoret. The primate will no doubt wish the counsel of as many of the Curia as can be assembled under the circumstances and it may offer some reassurance to the soldiers there.”

.o0o.

Arkady turned his horse off the road once he identified the rider ahead as his brother. They’d just crossed a small stream and his guards dismounted to let their horses drink as the Arkadians approached.

Swinging down from his saddle, Nikola handed off his mount to one of his companions to be watered and stretched before approaching his brother. Arkady tossed him a wineskin once he was close enough. The contents were cut with water but welcome enough after a long hot ride.

Nikola uncapped it and sipped eagerly. “Thank you, brother. That did my throat a world of good.”

“It’s not Fiannan but Arjenol’s vineyards show promise.” The two exchanged looks, remembering sharing Fianna wine while being rowed down the Beldour. “What news, Nikola?”

“Their scouts are out ahead of us but they don’t seem inclined to cross swords with us just yet.”

“Not even at Lochlyn?”

Nikola doffed his helm and raked sweat-soaked hair back from his face, working to tie it back once more. “I’d have thought so, but there wasn’t even the token garrison there was at Culliecairn. As soon as news reached them that you were moving in force through the Coldoire Pass they must have left. It wasn’t spur of the moment. It was cleared out. Even the village outside was abandoned.”

The elder of the two princes frowned. “If the Earl of Eastmarch isn’t willing to fight even for own ancestral home then someone must have him under tight discipline. It’s probably the right military move but it shames him in front of his vassals.”

“Wasn’t there a Rûman general who claimed the best battle was the one you don’t have to fight?”

“Father never approved of you reading Belzyman’s works and if all we were after was Eastmarch then yes. But we’re not just here for that and I doubt Earl Ivaar has more than half our numbers. You taking the Magas Pass while I struck at Coldoire was supposed to lure part of Gwynedd’s army into action under unfavourable terms for them. If he’s waiting for reinforcements then he’ll be a much harder nut to crack.”

“We could swing west and put more pressure on him.”

“It’s a thought.” Arkady considered and then shook his head. “That could let an army move between us and father’s army. We’ll continue as planned but let’s try something else to provoke Ivaar.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“If they re-occupied Lochalyn they’d have a fortress to our rear. Burn it.”

“The village too?”

He nodded. “Lots of smoke to give him a good idea what we’ve done. His temper might get the better of his sense. And if you find any other castles in the same state, do the same.”

“You know, Marek junior probably won’t like us doing this to lands he’s been promised.”

Arkady threw his head back and laughed, knowing that the men crossing the stream a few score yards away would see his high spirits and be encouraged. “Nikola, my brother, our cousin Marek didn’t grant title to these lands to his brother and now his second son in order to invest them with rich lands they could use to establish themselves on as potential rivals to the senior line of his house. Let Marek junior whine, wiser heads knew that fighting over these lands wouldn’t leave them unscathed.”

.o0o.

Donal found that sea travel made Anscom Drummond unusually waspish. *You’re where?*

*About a day’s hard ride north of Rhemuth,* the knight repeated himself patiently. *I warned you that the court would need to move north to Valoret before too much longer.*

*I thought at least you could wait until I arrived.* Curled in his cassock, the old priest was pressed against the bulkhead of the trading ship carrying him north. There was no possibility of privacy on the ship to conduct any of the rituals that might have eased the demands of communicating over such a distance – not without giving the crew every reason to hand him over to the ecclesiastical authorities once they reached Gwynedd soil at any rate. Thus he was forced to rely upon Donal to carry the burden of the link. *If I’d known I needed to go to Valoret, I could have asked Walther or Ebor to show me a Transfer Portal somewhere in northern Gwynedd.*

*Events got ahead of us. Meara’s struck at Culdi and now reports indicate two separate Torenthi armies have crossed the Rheljans north of Marek.*

*That would rather force your hand I suppose. I hope Urien brought the royal regalia with him.*

Donal blinked and felt the link waver. *Part of it, naturally. Why is that important?*

*He’ll need the Eye of Rom and the Crimson Lion.*

*I’ll find out. Let me know once you reach shore. If I reach Valoret without hearing from you, I’ll try contacting you again.*

*Go with God, Donal.*

*And you, Father Anscom.*

Breaking the link, Donal sat back on his heels, taking his hands off Vasco’s shoulder. The younger knight was breathing steadily and when Donal checked his pulse, it was elevated but settling back towards normal. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Did it go well?” Urien asked in a low voice from where he and Cinhil sat at the pavilion’s table. He’d altered the original plan to ride with Cinhil for all the first day of the journey north. Officially it was to allow last minute discussions to be carried out on the march but secretly so that Vasco – as part of their tiny conspiracy – would be available to let Donal draw on his energy to support the link. With more time Donal could have imposed himself on one of the King’s other guards and the man wouldn’t have remembered a thing, but willing support was preferable when possible.

The third, unspoken reason, was that it gave Urien a little longer with his firstborn son before, for the first time in his life, the prince departed for war.

“It went well enough.” Donal touched Vasco’s face and brought him out of the trance state. “My old teacher isn’t much of a sailor it seems.”

“Hopefully he won’t run into bad weather on the way. The last thing we need is for him to be shipwrecked on the way.”

“Father Anscom can swim I believe. I don’t imagine he’d enjoy doing that in cold sea water but he’s probably got a better chance of surviving a shipwreck than most sailors.”

Vasco struggled to a sitting position. “Sorry, who’s been shipwrecked?”

“No one I hope.” Donal filled a goblet with fortified wine from the table and handed it to Vasco. “You did well, thank you. Conversing at that distance can be a strain if you’re doing it alone.”

Urien leant forwards. “Sir Donal, did he tell you anything else about what he’s learned about activating the Haldane powers?”

“A little, Sire. It seems that certain parts of the royal regalia are required. The Eye of Rom and the Crimson Lion he said.”

Cinhil exchanged looks with his father. “That would have been nice to know before we left Rhemuth.”

“The timing’s unfortunate, I agree. You do know both pieces? I didn’t get any description.”

Urien reached for his cloak and ran his hand over the massive brooch used as its clasp, the Haldane lion in gold, it was as large as the King’s fist. “This is the Crimson Lion. A bit of a misnomer since the lion isn’t crimson, just the enamel around it but it’s certainly old enough to have been used by previous kings although not King Cinhil. I believe one of his sons commissioned it.”

“It’s Concardine workmanship,” Cinhil advised him. “I went through the inventory with mother once. It was made for King Rhys on the orders of his wife, Queen Michaela.”

“It may have replaced an earlier piece,” speculated Donal. “Or perhaps the initiation was refined over time. King Rhys died when his sons were very young. He may have imprinted the brooch with instructions to his supporters so they could activate his son’s powers when the time came. May I examine it?”

Urien removed the brooch and handed it to Donal, who turned it over in his hands, admiring the workmanship, before gently probing at it with his mind. “Good Lord. This is the right piece, alright. You’ll understand once your potential has been activated, Sire. This has seen use in potent rituals. I can still feel the weight of your royal forebears’ touch.”

“Well at least that’s one.” Urien held out his hand for the Lion and pinned it back into place on his cloak.

A chill of worry went through Donal’s head. “One, Sire?”

“I haven’t worn the Eye of Rom since my coronation. Both of my uncles were wearing it when they died and father always felt it was ill-omened somehow, despite all the legends around it.”

“Legends?” asked Vasco, from the sound of him still somewhat muddled from the working. “You mean that tale about it having been one of the Magi’s gifts to the infant Christ.”

“You know how stories get around?” Urien leant back. “Another tale says a saint delivered it into the hands of Cinhil Haldane and instructed him to wear it when he confronted Imre Festil.”

Donal shivered. “That may be more than just a tale, Sire. My teacher claims descent from Saint Camber of Culdi. I know his sainthood was revoked but it’s very possible Camber gave the Eye of Rom to Cinhil as part of the very first Haldane activation.”

“Then I suppose we’ll need some excuse to send someone back for it.”

“Easy enough to explain that you always meant to take it with you but forgot to order it added to your baggage. I’m sure everyone’s left something in the rush,” observed Cinhil. “But neither of us can just go back and, no offense to you or Vasco, Sir Donal, but we’re talking about one of the most valuable parts of the royal regalia. If we send either of you back, Fulbert will probably insist on sending messages back to father before handing it over.”

“Then we need someone of suitable rank… Uncle Jashan?”

“Unfortunately I don’t think my brother would be pleased at being used as a messenger, particularly when Culdi’s been taken by the Mearans. He’ll probably insist on waiting until that situation’s been resolved and that could take longer than sending Donal.”

The two Haldanes exchanged thoughtful looks, faces suddenly looking very similar to each other in the candlelight. “Malcolm,” Urien decided.

“Malcolm? He’s rather young.”

“He’s second-in-line to the throne,” pointed out Urien. “A seminary education may serve him well but he’s not a priest yet and I’ve been giving thought to calling him to join the army anyway. Sending him back to Rhemuth serves two purposes, collecting the Eye and reminding the court he exists. I suspect they’re all a little more sure that Jaron is next after you in succession and he really is rather young.”

“There’s a third purpose too. If Malcolm’s going to Rhemuth then he can bring your teacher with him Donal. An old man riding alone across Gwynedd might not be safe – from accidents even if sending all our levies east hasn’t made bandits bold on the roads. I’d feel better,” Cinhil assured Donal, “If he had an escort. One more priest in Malcolm’s party won’t attract much attention.”

.o0o.

The sound of trumpets ahead told Arkady that the burning of Lochalyn had served its purpose. “Tythus. Keep the infantry marching south. Suleiman, Árpád, it seems our cavalry screen has found the enemy. We’ll do this just as planned.”

Prepared for this possibility, the officers gave their signals with flags and without more than the most unavoidable noise, Arkady led the cavalry of his force away from the road, companies of Moorish light cavalry sweeping ahead on south before forming up on his left while Árpád and the mounted men at arms seasoned in years of war against the Northmen formed disciplined ranks to the Prince’s right.

Although they were skirting the Plain of Iomaire, Arkady had picked a route along the foothills of the Rheljans and it was only as the Torenthi cavalry crested the last hill between them and Nikola’s cavalry screen that the Eastmarch forces recognised their presence.

Before Arkady he could see only horsemen, a wild melee of border horsemen and Nikola’s Arkadian lancers. Lines had long since broken and knots of men cursed and struck at each other when they closed only to fall back again as momentary advantage flowed back and forth.

Rising in his stirrups, Arkady picked out Nikola’s banner above one such knot and that of the Howells of Eastmarch not far away. “Suleiman,” he called and made a hooking gesture with his left arm to indicate that the Moors should sweep around the right flank of the borderers.

Turning the other way he gestured towards the banners and waited until Árpád raised his hand in acknowledgement. “Sound the advance,” Arkady called to his signaller and the man raised his trumpet, the familiar sound a signal for the horses as much as for the men. As the force began to trot down the hill, picking up speed, Arkady lifted his shield from where it hung upon the saddlebow and secured it to himself.

Seeing they were now outnumbered, the Eastmarch men pulled back, some of them producing short bows and firing back as they did so. Nikola’s men took the opportunity to draw clear, those on the right and left of Arkady’s line spilling out of the way. Árpád and Arkady parted their forces, each leading half the heavy horses around one side of those in the centre, now reforming around Nikola’s banner.

With this obstacle out of the way there was nothing between the Torenthi and the Eastmarchers. “The charge!” Arkady cried out, lowering his lance. “For Furstán!”

The charge rang out from the bugle and almost five hundred heavy horse broke into a gallop across the last brief interval.

Arkady aimed his lance for the chest of a border man who’d turned, sword drawn and shield held a hair too low. The lancepoint skipped up off the rim of the shield and caught the Borderer in the throat. Torn from his saddle the man fell away, most likely under the hooves of another horse.

Little caring for the man’s fate in this rush of steel and blood and screaming horses – and quite unable to turn back to him in any case – Arkad drove his lance into the chest of a borderer who still clutched a bow he should have discarded for the axe hung from his saddle. The lance broke and Arkady released it, drawing his scimitar to ride on and crash against a tall, pale-haired man – helm lost or discarded earlier in the day.

They exchanged blows twice, the momentum of the charge having passed. Then Arkady drove his shield against the border-marcher’s and reached over to jab the rump of the man’s horse with his scimitar. The horse screamed and bucked wildly, almost throwing his rider. It certainly did nothing good to his guard and in a whirl of steel, Arkady managed to land a long slash along the inside of the man’s arm, guarded only by leather no match for the sharpened steel.

With a scream, the borderer fell and looking around Arkady saw that the only Eastmarchers still mounted were those riding desperately to get ahead of Suleiman’s fleet-footed southerners. Some would make it perhaps, but those whose horses wearied would undoubtedly fall prey to the Moors.

With that assured, Arkady turned and looked for his own guards and for the banners he’d seen earlier. For the most part his party, along with his signaller and his own banner, had been close on his heels and seeing their Prince didn’t mean to join the pursuit, as some of the other heavy horse had, they closed around him, screening him from any desperate Eastmarchers with their swords.

Nikola, carrying his own banner, was riding to join him, followed by his lancers and Eastmarch’s banner, though it still flew over the soil of its land, did so in the hands of a Torenthi knight, who must have seized it from the bearer. “A trophy for you, my lord,” the knight offered.

Arkady shook his head. “Keep it for now, brave sir. But bring it to me at our camp tonight and I’ll redeem it from you as the valour of your deed deserves.”

The knight bowed as far as his armour permitted and dismounted to see to his horse.

“My thanks for your swift arrival, Arkady,” called Nikola as he reached his brother. “A hot business, I think we must have pricked Earl Ivarr’s pride as you intended.”

Arkady looked at the broad vale in which they’d battled, now marked in so many places by fallen horses and men – many of Eastmarch but some Arkadians and even a few of his own company. “He’ll have learned better if he managed to escape today.”

“Unless I miss my guess, he didn’t.” His brother gestured to where three Eastmarch men stood over one of their fallen comrades. Outnumbered many times their brave stand could accomplish nothing, but dismounted they had no chance of flight.

“You may be right.” Arkady made to spur closer but one of his guards moved in his pass. “Your pardon, Your Highness, but the man on the ground might have a bow.”

“Well ride closer and find out then,” grumbled the prince.

The guard obeyed and returned a moment later. “No bow, Your Highness, but I wouldn’t put it past them to throw a dagger if you get too close.”

“Is it Lord Howell who lies there?”

“It is, though I think him sorely wounded.”

With a nod, Arkady rode closer to the little group although he was careful not to come so close as to risk an opportune dagger throw. “I’m told you guard your lord, Earl Ivaar of Eastmarch,” he called out. “Is he well enough to speak?”

The three exchanged looks and then the oldest shook his head. “Nay, he is not. I reckon not he’ll rise again.”

Frowning Arkady unravelled the thick dialogue. “He’s dying?”

“Like too,” came the dour response. “His leg’s in poor state and one of yon fellows planted a lance below his ribs.”

A belly wound. Nine in ten men wounded so would die, and that before the Earl’s other wound was considered. “If the three of you will swear upon the Holy Bible not to fight against Torenth again this year, then I’ll have my men fetch you some of your horses to take him north. He may not survive the ride but it’s a better chance than he has any other way.”

The grizzled borderer considered that. “And if we say nay?”

“I have archers,” Arkady explained simply.

The man hung his head. “Aye, you do. Fetch your Bible. We’ll swear.”

“Cousin Marek won’t like you doing that,” warned Nikola as Arkady’s chaplain was called up with the bible he carried in his saddlebags. “And you were less generous fighting Norsemen.

“These are Christian folk, not the barbarians of the North. Marek can slaughter who he chooses. I don’t recall ever agreeing to be his executioner.”

.o0o.

The great church of Arx Fidei near Valoret had been founded more than a hundred years ago to provide the spiritual home of the Ordo Custodeum Fidei. Established to replace the once-great Deryni monastic orders of Saint Michael and Saint Gabriel, the ‘Guardians of the Faith’ had spearheaded the early pogroms against the Deryni and despite the breaking of their temporal power a decade later, the grandeur of the buildings almost made Donal sick.

He was glad King Urien didn’t intend to spend the night there, or he’d have had to make some excuse to demur. God only knows what he’d be exposing himself to psychically after so many innocent Deryni had suffered here.

In what might have been consideration of that fact, Donal had been left with the greater part of the royal party, to wait outside the walls of the abbey. Tonsured monks had brought out baskets of food but Donal restricted himself to an apple from his saddlebags and stood next to his horse, washing down bites of the fruit with sips from a jug of cider he’d bought in one of the villages they rode through the previous day.

The voice of monks raising their voices in praise of the Lord God did nothing to dispel his darker thoughts. While the words were no different from those he’d heard a hundred times before, here they were inextricably linked in his mind with the Statutes of Ramos, codified not so very far to the south to forever bar good men like Anscom Drummond from the Church for no better reason than fear of their race.

Thus distracted, he didn’t realise that the Abbey gates had opened until the King came into view, followed by a youth perhaps the same age as Earl Godwyn. The Earl of Carthane and his cousin had more in common than just their age. The same Haldane dark hair covered their heads save for the modest tonsure that marked Malcolm’s head and mounted on the spirited young mare Urien had brought for him, Malcolm showed the same instinctive horsemanship.

“Sire, Your Highness.” Donal swept a bow to the pair. “We can press on to Valoret as soon as you’re ready.”

“We may not want to set too hard a pace. Malcolm’s not ridden in a while and Valoret isn’t all that far away.”

“I can keep any pace you prefer, father.”

“You’re going to be in the saddle for a great deal of the next few months,” the King warned. “There’s no shame in wanting to ease back into it.”

“I promise, I won’t slow you down.”

Urien looked down at Donal. “Very well then. Since my son’s so confident, Sir Donal, have everyone mount up. If we can make the city swiftly enough then we may be in time to observe Vespers at All Saints Cathedral. That would no doubt please Archbishop Marcus.”

“Of course, Sire.” Donal placed his foot in one stirrup and heaved himself up into the saddle. “Unfurl the royal banner,” he called to the standard bearer. “His Majesty wants to celebrate Vespers at All Saints so we’ll be picking up the pace.”

.o0o.

“I received the messages you sent ahead,” Tresham MacEwan confimed as the Royal Council convened in a side hall of Valoret’s Royal Palace. Still maintained as a secondary royal residence, the Palace was well-equipped to accommodate the court. “And we’ve more information from the east as well.”

Urien gestured for the Earl Marshal to continue.

Tapping a map of Gwynedd’s northern and eastern territories to illustrate his points, Tresham obediently clarified: “The northern column came though Coldoire. It’s led by Prince Arkady, Kyprian’s heir and we think he has around three thousand men – half mounted and the rest on foot. He took Culliecairn, marched right through the pass and turned south. He burned Lochalyn in passing and did much the same to anywhere else that happened to be in his path, keeping a good perimeter of light cavalry to keep us from seeing his exact strength. Unlike some of the reports from the south, he’s at least letting people leave the villages before he burns them.”

“The Earls of Rhendall and Eastmarch disagreed upon how to deal with that. Braham’s holding their combined infantry north of Saint Cassian’s Abbey but the Earl Ivaar led his mounted men forward to try to push through their cavalry for a closer look. It doesn’t seem to have ended well, the Earl and most of his men haven’t returned but stragglers are still finding their way back. From what they’re telling us, there are heavy and light horse from central Torenth as well as a strong force of Moorish cavalry.”

“And our losses?”

“Unless a great many more return, two or three hundred dead and wounded. I’ve ordered Braham to move down to Saint Cassian’s and sent word to Marbury for the Marley levies to come south as well. With Arkady’s movements it doesn’t seem that Kyprian has his eye on Kheldour or Marley.”

Urien nodded. “Your own levies at Claibourne as well?”

“Somewhere at sea,” the Duke admitted. “There’s been no word of them reaching port at Carbury yet, but once they do they’ll march straight for Grecotha.”

“It should still save us time compared to having them march the whole way.”

“The second column came down from Cardosa. Mostly infantry and a sizeable supply train but a solid core of cavalry as well. The black hart’s been seen so Kyprian will be leading them in person. They’re moving more slowly than Arkady, with the wagons. Our best guess is they’re going to head for the northern tip of the Lendours and then follow the Falling Water River down to Valoret.”

“How many men does he have with him?” asked Malcolm studying the map.

“We don’t know. Carcashale’s a mess and the last news was that Earl Zion’s brother might be making some accommodation with Kyprian.”

“That’s treason!”

“Perhaps. Or maybe Kyprian ensorcelled him somehow. He’s Deryni, who knows what he might be able to do once he got his hands on a man?”

Urien held up his hand to cut off speculation. “We can deal with Lord Genlis in good time. His brother Zion upheld his loyalty to me to the end and I owe him better than to condemn his brother on hearsay. Now, what do we know about Marek’s movements to the south?”

“Earl Euan reports he’s not tried to force any of the passes. On last report he’d crossed the Grande River and but it’s not clear yet if he’s turning north to join Kyprian or if he plans to continue south into Corwyn.”

“Most likely the latter,” Archbishop Marcus declared harshly. “Jernian de Corwyn will welcome him and their combined forces move west through Carthmoor to threaten Rhemuth.”

“I’m not convinced of that, your eminence.” Urien looked at the map. “I believe my son left orders for this contingency though, Duke Tresham?”

“Aye.” Tresham’s northern accent escaped past his usual efforts to maintain a cultured veneer over his northern heritage. “If that’s so then we can nearly match Kyprian and Arkady’s forces here well before they reach Valoret. Once the prince arrives with his army from the west we’ll be strong enough to hammer them back across the Rheljans without a doubt. Marek and Jernian wouldn’t stand a chance w’out Torenth’s help so if we beat Kyprian here we can crush them easily.”

“Either way then, the best course of action is to continue to gather our forces here then.” Urien nodded. “I see my son has picked his commanders wisely. He’s placed his faith in you, Duke Tresham. I cannot be better guided than to do the same.”


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

 _Be broken, O peoples, and be shattered; And give ear, all remote places of the earth. Gird yourselves , yet be shattered; Gird yourselves , yet be shattered._  
Isaiah 8:9

There was something of the uncanny, Piran thought, about Ebor MacGregor. The Master of Trevalga’s response to Donal MacAthan’s letter had been everything that Earl Godwyn had hoped for. Indeed, beyond it because he’d even opened his own coffers to help feed and prepare the assembled force for the march east and back into Gwynedd.

There was nothing unwelcome in any of that, but MacGregor’s ability to produce the answer to any question that might arise couldn’t help but suggest to Piran that the man might also know more than he told them.

“You’re probably not wrong,” Prince Joran agreed thoughtfully after he’d prodded Piran, while they were on watch one afternoon, to explain why he – almost alone of the Earl’s party – hadn’t warmed to Ebor. “But on the other hand, he’s not from Gwynedd so he didn’t have to help us then and he certainly didn’t have to join us with thirty more men – and the Good Lord knows we need all the support we can find.”

“I know. I’m just worried.”

“Worry about more substantial matters, Sir Piran,” the prince suggested cheerily. “For example, we’re actually north of Culdi and there’s no sign of my brother yet. If Prince Jolyon decides to march by this way, we’ll be outnumbered by about ten to one or so they say.”

Piran rubbed his chin. “You’re right, your… Jaron. I’m much less worried about the MacGregor now.” He’d almost called Jaron ‘Your Highness’ again, a title the young man had insisted on being set aside when they were in private. He was, he’d pointed out, only a squire and a very young one whereas Sir Piran was a knight and in military matters his superior.

“I’m glad to be able to help in my own small way,” he replied with a grin.

Piran nodded and then looked past him. “What…”

“I said…” Jaron blinked and then turned around to see what had caught the young Knight’s eye.

Men in grey and yellow tartan were filtering along the road towards Transha, pushing their border ponies harder than the horseman in Piran felt wise. “Are they Mearan?” he asked.

The squire frowned. “I think those are MacArdry colours, but the Earl of Transha’s men ought to be with Earl Richard’s levies and the Cassan men.”

“Most of them are wounded. Dear God, you don’t think he’s been defeated do you?”

“We’d better find out.” Piran pushed the boy towards the horses. “Ride to the Earl and warn him we’re about to have guests. I’ll see what they’re about.”

Running headlong into what might be a routing border party didn’t sound like the safest thing he’d ever done, but there wasn’t much room to intercept them otherwise so Piran descended the side of the hill he’d been watching from as quickly as he dared.

He dared too quickly as it happened, riding boots and spurs not being ideal for negotiating the rugged slope. Tripping he fell against a tree, failed to get a handhold and resignedly brought his arms up to shield his face as he tumbled down the last twenty feet of the hill and rolled out onto the road almost directly in front of the first of the MacArdry men.

“Whoa!” exclaimed the man in the lead, hauling on the reins of his pony to keep from riding Piran down. “Easy lad, d’ye want tae be trampled?”

Piran shook his head, not yet able to speak as the last impact had knocked the wind out of him. He tried to rise, stumbled and almost fell again.

The mounted highlander looked around and then pointed up the hill. “Are ye being chased, lad?”

“No,” gasped Piran and he took a deep breath. “Are you?”

The man grimaced. “Yer no one of Marlor’s stragglers then. Aye, Jolyon Quinnell’s across the border wi’ an army. There’s twenty score o’ them on our heels.”

“Just twenty score? I’d heard ten times as many.”

“Aye, that’s just those chasing us. His main force is north o’ t’Cleyde.”

“Well if you head around the hill up there, the Earl of Carthane’s camped with almost five hundred men.”

“Truly?” A smile crossed the rider’s face. “Tha’s the best news we’ve had in days. Here, I’m forgetting my manners. Ardal MacArdry, Tanist of the MacArdry’s at your service.”

“Sir Piran ap Coran, in service to the Earl Godwyn Pirek-Haldane.” He looked up and saw a flash of crimson at the top of the hill. “I sent… a squire to alert the Earl of your approach. It seems he’s come to see for himself.”

It was indeed Earl Godwyn, he himself carrying a banner with the lion of Gwynedd in token of his loyalties. Rather than come directly down the slope mounted, he cupped his hands. “Sir Piran! Is all well!”

Piran cupped his own. “Mearan’s sir, chasing the MacArdry’s. Four hundred of them!”

Godwyn nodded and pulled up his coif. “I’ll bring the men to join you!”

Down on the road, Ardal gestured for his men to dismount and take up positions in the trees either side of the road. “The King’s sent us aid, lads,” he encouraged them. “It’s our turn to surprise Ramsay’s men.”

Piran drew his sword and followed Ardal into the cluster of men to the right. “What happened?” he asked. “Our last news was the levies from Cassan and Grecotha were coming to reinforce Kierney.”

“Jolyon moved faster,” Ardal explained grimly. “Between Baron Marlor, Earl Richard and my cousin Mael’s lads we were still outnumbered four ‘o them tae every one of ours. The old Earl, he could barely see but he knew we’d not stop them with that so he ordered the army to scatter. Go west to Cassan, east to Grecotha or south to meet Prince Cinhil, he ordered. And then he and his knights charged at the Mearans to give us a chance to get away. ‘Twas a braw sight but wi’ less than a hundred o’ them, how else could it end?”

“Do you think the others made it?”

“I don’t know, lad. We tried to go west with McLain – that’d be Sir Roger, who’s wed to the Earl’s daughter – but yon Ramsey caught us near the Cuille. I think McLain managed to get across the river but our Chief took an arrow and we’ve been chased south ever since. Barely managed to get clear of an ambush at Culdi and… hark, here they come now.”

Indeed they did. A strong band of men in leathers, the tartan of their cloaks not familiar to Piran; although that was hardly unusual. They sent up a cry when they saw the MacArdy’s had taken a stand, sounding almost like hunting hounds to the knight.

“There don’t seem so many.”

“This is just the first. They’re calling up their laird now. D’ye suppose your ain laird will be joining us any time soon?”

“The Earl will –!” Piran snapped and then saw the grin forming on Ardal’s lips. “Well these fellows don’t seem in a hurry so he might want to make sure his men are all fed well first.”

“Oh aye. A man always fight’s best with a full stomach. An’ it’d be a sweet thing if we can get Ramsay himself to make the charge before he knows the Earl’s waiting for him.”

“Well he seems a bit hesitant, should we send a formal invitation?”

“Nae, nae. He’ll come. He wants us finished so he can scurry back to his prince. He’s an ambitious man is Ramsay of Cloome, or so I make him. He’d nae want to be far from Jolyon when there’s lands seized to be handed out to the Prince’s supporters.”

Only moments later a much larger column of Ramsay men came into view and under the guidance of a cold-eyed man – alone amongst them in wearing mail – they fanned out through the trees, forming a thick line of armed men that crossed the road and deep enough through the trees to outflank the Transha men.

“MacArdry!” the man in mail called out. “You know you don’t stand a chance! Throw down your swords! You know the King in Rhemuth won’t send you aid! But my prince offers you his mercy. Swear yourselves to him and he’ll honor the MacArdry’s of Transha as highly as any of his Earls!”

Ardal drew his sword, a heavy claymore. It made a rasping sound as he pulled it from the scabbard. “Ye want my sword, Lere Ramsay?” he shouted back. “Come and get it, if you dare!”

“Then there’ll be many a red eye among the MacArdy maids!” Ramsay pointed his sword towards Ardal’s position. “Take them!”

The Ramsays surged forwards, a wild highland cry heralding their charge. Piran clutched his sword in both hands, wishing he had his shield.

He was a surprised as the Ramsays when the handful of arrows loosed by MacArdrys were joined by the rattle of dozens of shafts from above. Looking up he saw a line of Connaiti on the hill, a familiar dark-haired squire standing with them as they drew back their bows for a second volley.

But still the charge came.

“MacArdry’s!” roared Ardal and stepped forward to meet them.

His clansmen joined him, a short push to meet the charging Ramsays head on and Piran joined them with a shrill “A Haldane!” The first man he met seemed startled to see his Carthane livery. Piran hacked down, splintering the man’s light targe and then stepped inside the arc of the man’s broadsword cracking the hilt of his sword against the man’s jaw.

Spitting blood the Ramsay stepped back, blocking the man behind him. There was more force than science to his next blow and Piran side-stepped it, then brought his sword around, the blade biting deep into his opponent’s side. He crumpled but another took his place.

Piran kicked out as their swords clashed, the heavy greave on his shin cracking against the other man’s soft boot and drawing a gasp. In return the Ramsay’s targe battered his elbow, which would leave bruises even through his mail.

Piran took a half-step back and out of nowhere – or so it seemed – Ardal’s claymore whirled in, putting a bloody groove in the skull of the Ramsay. “Press on!” the MacArdry shouted.

The MacArdry’s fought like scalded wildcats but despite the addition of archers, they were outnumbered and the gap between their two clusters of men was drawing Ramsays in between them. Soon they’d be able to out flank the loyal highlanders and then…

There was another cry of “A Haldane!” and calls of dismay from the Ramsays. Earl Godwyn and Ebor MacGregor led their force’s few cavalry in a charge headlong into the Mearans and behind them the grimly professional lines of Connaiti plugged the gap while others moved out to the flanks.

“Push them, MacArdrys!”

Ardal pushed forwards and Piran followed at his left hand, battering at any face he saw with the Ramsay colours. There seemed to be a succession of these, he was never quite sure afterwards if any fell or if they were just pushed aside as Ardal led a wedge of his clansmen into the heart of the Ramsays.

What brought Piran back to himself was the clash of his sword against another and the cold eyes gleaming at him from behind it. With a shock he realised he was crossing swords with the Ramsay himself.

Somewhere along the way, Ramsay had lost his shield but he clutched a dirk in his other hand and as he forced Piran’s sword back he tried to bring the shorter blade up below.

Piran shot his hand out and seized the other man’s wrist, halting the advance. They held there a moment pushing against each other and then the southern knight lunged forwards, bringing one foot down on his opponent’s. Ramsay faltered and Piran was able to twist his wrist, the Mearan losing his grip on the dirk.

Ramsay stepped back but before Piran could press his advantage, he’d seized the hilt of his sword with both hands and was back on the attack, hammering brutally at Piran.

Piran met him in kind and sparks flew as the two swords met again and again.

For a moment it was almost like a drill from back in Carthane, but this was a battle not a duel. A Ramsay clansman saw his chief’s plight and forced his way close enough to bring his axe down on Piran’s right shoulder. His mail saved him from a broken shoulder, or losing the arm completely, but Ramsay saw the weakness and his next blow sent Piran’s sword flying and a buffet with the butt of the battleaxe dropped the knight to the ground.

There was a cry of anger from Ardal and his claymore clove the axeman from shoulder to ribs but the burly Tanist of the MacArdry’s still had to push the man’s body aside before he could reach Ramsay.

With a sneer, the Mearan reversed his sword to deliver a blow against his fallen foe.

Scrabbling for his sword, Piran’s hand closed around the handle of the dirk Lere Ramsay had dropped only a moment before. Twisting he managed to avoid the downward thrust of the Mearan’s side and before he could recover to thrust again, Piran drove the dagger into his inner calf, below his mail.

Lere Ramsay screamed and then Ardal MacArdry’s sword ended the scream with brutal finality.

.o0o.

“That was well done,” Prince Cinhil assured them late in the day. The leading elements of his lancers, having been slowed by the need to carry supplies, had arrived in time to chase the last of the Ramsay men west and away from the fords over the Cleyde. “I’m sorry to hear of Earl Mael’s death, Sir Ardal. It’s my understanding that as his Tanist, you’re also his heir?”

“Aye. M’ cousin was wed but nae children tha’ live as yet.”

“I’m sure my father looks forward to welcoming you as one of his loyal Earls. Surely we need men of your quality upon the border more than ever before.”

The prince turned to Godwyn, Piran and his brother. “Your first battle command, Godwyn, but not the last I hope as nicely as it was dealt with. I understand that Jaron and Sir Piran have served you well.”

“Prince Jaron led our archers, Your Highness. And without Sir Piran’s quick thinking matters could have gone very much less well.”

Cinhil nodded. “And I’ll remember that. For now, we still have the problem of gathering up our forces so we can deal with Prince Jolyon with our full strength.”

“The Ramsay men went west and must ha’ reached Culdi by now. It will nae be long before Jolyon knows we’re here.”

“Quite right. I think I’ve learned a stern lesson on the needs of an army on the move. One that could have spared lives among your force if we’d reached you even a few hours earlier.” Cinhil looked over at Earl Godwyn. “From your reports it seems that the Mearans still hold Culdi and are using it as a base of supplies.”

“We’ve seen sign of a number of their wagons, so it seems likely.”

“Excellent. Our next step is to take that away from them. Fortunately I know Culdi quite well so we can reach the castle before sunset and if Jolyon can take it by storm then we can surely manage the same – particularly with the main force there being demoralised by the death of their leader.”

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so, cavalry aren’t the ideal force if you mean to hold Culdi against a siege.”

Cinhil touched Godwyn’s shoulder. “I doubt Culdi could hold us all. But it can contain our supplies and with an alert and reinforced garrison it can hold out against anything short of Jolyon’s main efforts. You’ll certainly not be short of supplies, with those we brought with us. Our wounded will also need the shelter of the castle.”

“Ye’re going tae leave your supplies behind? Foraging will slow ye just as much,” warned Ardal.

“We can go a day or two with short rations.” Cinhil assured the highlander. “I’d like some of your men to act as scouts, you know the hills north of Culdi better than I. Where do you think Sir Roger will likely gather the remaining Kierney levies and those of Cassan?”

The highlander frowned. “Drumlithe is where the roads come together best – it’s a port on the coast, perhaps midway betwixt Transha and Kilshane.”

“And could a fast column, with only the barest essentials of supplies, reach Drumlithe in two days.”

“Aye. With the right guides. You’re thinking to come around Jolyon from the west and catch him between you and t’ Earl of Culdi coming from Grecotha.”

“The Duke of Cassan will be in charge of the army at Grecotha but essentially yes. Without supplies coming from Culdi, Jolyon will have to slow to feed his forces by forage. It’s going to be hard on the lands he marches through but this is our best chance to smash him before we have to go east to face Torenth.”

“May I ride with you, Your Highness?” Earl Godwyn asked eagerly.

Cinhil eyed him. “It’ll mean giving up your independent command here.”

“I know I’ve only a few knights with me, Sire, but you’ll need every man you can against Jolyon and my infantry have to remain here to secure Culdi.”

“There’s something to that. Of course, if that’s so, it leaves only one possible choice to stay here and head our garrison here. Do you mind my leaving you here, Earl Ardal?”

The highlander dropped to one knee. “Yer highness, I’m your man o’ life and limb. There’s many a wounded MacArdry man that’ll need tae stay here and nae shame to I in staying wi’ them.”

“It’s decided then. I understand Sir Piran’s taken his share of wounds and you’ll need someone who knows the Connaiti.”

“I can still ride, Your Highness,” Piran protested.

“You’ll ride better for a few days recovering. And believe me, I’ll want you at your best once Jolyon’s dealt with. Remember, dire as things may look here, King Kyprian has three armies just as large in the East. This is just the first rain of the storm we’ll face there. Jaron, I want you here too. I know it’s not the most glorious job but while Earl Ardal and Sir Piran are managing the defences, you’re in charge of organising the supplies.” He held up his hand to still any protests. “I know it doesn’t sound as exciting as riding with me, but you’ve shown your courage already. Now show me you can handle the responsibilities that go with commanding an army.”

.o0o.

Four days later the army Cinhil was leading south across the Purple March had lost almost all resemblance to the brightly caparisoned column that had left Rhemuth. Men and horses had stripped away everything they didn’t need and both could have benefited from a day or two’s grooming.

Bolstered by Sir Roger McLain and what remained of the Kierney levies, as well as a thousand more Cassani knights and pikemen under Roger’s younger son Arnall (who was married to Duke Tambert’s daughter) it was also a much larger force. But even so, the best information that the MacArdry scouts had provided suggested that Jolyon could still field the larger army of the two princes.

“He’s not seeking battle though,” Cinhil replied thoughtfully when Vasco voiced his concern. “He was decisive enough against Earl Richard, so there must be something else on his mind.”

“I can only think of two likely causes, Your Highness.”

“Either he’s short of supplies or there’s another army he knows about and we don’t.”

“If it’s the former I’d expect him to be working west, back towards Culdi – right towards us in other words. But instead he’s moving south, into Marlor.”

Sir Roger nodded. “He’s aggressive or at least his captains are. Most likely his own scouts have found someone south of him and he’s got the bit between his teeth, rushing south to hammer them the way he did Earl Richard and I.”

“The only other army I can think he could be facing is Duke Tambert and Bishop Jashan’s force. He might believe he can beat them first then turn back and take us on.” Cinhil nodded. “Then we need to press the pace. We can catch his tail with our cavalry and force him to honour both threats. He can’t go further east without running into our armies mustering at Valoret. If we’re squeezing him north and south then he’ll either have to stand and fight or swing back west towards Culdi and let us combine our armies and outnumber him at last.”

“Shall we send more scouts out?”

“Yes, and prepare the men for another late evening. I want to move as far south as we can before the light fails.”

As the sun finally dipped behind the Culdi highlands off to the west, Cinhil’s vanguard was almost at the small castle of Marlor which therefore became the rallying point for the weary army.

Vasco was directing a company of Cassani spearmen to set up tents on pastures south of the castle when one of the MacArdrys arrived, his pony almost staggering.

“Claibourne,” the man exclaimed as he dismounted.

“Claibourne?” exclaimed Vasco. “What would Duke Tresham be doing here?”

“I couldnae say, but they’re Claibourne colours and there’s near eight hundred o’ them camped maybe five miles up the road.”

Vasco looked around and then collared one of the infantry. “See to this man’s mount,” he ordered and then gestured to the castle. “The Prince will want to hear this.”

They entered the castle where the hall, largely stripped by the Mearans, was now accommodating the royal party. There was little to serve that wasn’t the rations the army had brought with them but at least there was shelter.

“Your Highness.” Vasco led the scout directly past the other officers to the prince. “This man has a report you should hear.”

The short scout repeated himself and Cinhil stood, walking towards the fireplace. “Eight hundred men under Claibourne colours can only be Keene MacEwan’s army. Tell me, did you happen to see this heraldry as well?” He pointed up at the carving above the fireplace.

The scout squinted. “Aye… Something like, perhaps. But there was a bar across the top.”

Cinhil removed his Haldane signet and showed it to the MacArdry. “In the same way this ring shows a bar across the top of the Haldane lion.”

“Aye!” he smacked one fist into his hand. “’Twas that exactly, yer highness!”

“Those are the arms of Baron Marlor’s eldest son,” Cinhil explained to the man. “Can you guide my aide Vasco back to that camp?”

“I can! But my horse maybe cannae.”

“We have remounts.” Cinhil looked at Vasco. “Marlor’s held by a cadet branch of the MacEwans. If Drummond MacEwan reached Grecotha and found Keene there he could well have persuaded him to march west as reinforcements. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If he brings his men up then we can match Jolyon even without Tambert and Jashan.”

Vasco looked at the chamber where he’d left his gear. It seemed he’d not be sleeping long tonight. “I don’t know the state of his men but five miles could take half the day.”

Cinhil nodded. “Fetch me a map and I’ll explain what I want Keene to do.”

.o0o.

The camp fires were sufficient to help the scout – Sean-Seamus MacArdry, he’d given his name as – to lead Vasco back to the camp.

As they reached the edge there was a rustle of movement and the shadow of an armed man moved between them and the nearest fire. “That’s close enough,” he warned. “Who are you and why’re you skulking around our camp at night?”

“I’m a messenger from Prince Cinhil.” Vasco held still, unsure how many more guards there might be. “Our scouts spotted you before sunset.”

“How can I know that? You could be a Mearan spy.”

Sean-Seamus snorted. “And you could be a cockerel, with your preening. It’s twa late o’ t’night fer this.”

“He certainly sounds like a Mearan!”

“I’m frae Transha, ye fool!”

Vasco shook his head and - realising that probably wouldn’t be recognised - put a restraining hand on the scout. “I don’t know if Lord MacEwan will recognise me, but I have a letter from the Prince with his seal on it. You’re welcome to disarm me until he can check that.”

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on that. Alright, come ahead one at a time, your loud-mouthed friend first.”

Sean-Seamus grunted. “I’ll give him loud-mouthed. D’ye want me to clout him when I get close, then we kin get to the Lairds tents wi’ out this?”

“No, give him your weapons. Lord MacEwan is one of the king’s generals. He’ll recognise an order from the prince.”

“On yer ain head be it.” The short highlander approached the and reluctantly handed over his bow, his axe, the long knife at his belt and then a shorter one he’d kept in his boot.

Vasco gave the little arsenal an amused look and the leather cord used to tie Sean-Seamus’ hands behind his back a less pleased one. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

“You’re a little late to argue,” the sentry warned. “Come ahead now.”

With a sigh, Vasco complied and unwrapped his swordbelt, scabbarded sword and its companion dagger along with it.”

“No hidden daggers on you then?”

“Just a penknife I use for quills.”

“Hand it over.”

When the ‘weapon’ was produced the guard scoffed. “I couldn’t menace a chicken with that.”

“You insisted.”

“Ah… put it away!” He tied Vasco’s hands too. “Now follow me and no funny business.”

There were more guards outside the pavilions of the little army’s commanders and the two prisoners were left standing in front of their amused looks while the sentry reported their arrival and – hopefully – either Keene MacEwan or at least the Baron of Marlor’s son Drummond MacEwan, could be woken.

“D’ye think you could reach that wee knife of yours?” Sean-Seamus asked in a whisper. “I reckon it’d make short work of this cord even if a chicken would laugh at it.”

“I’m keeping that in reserve,” Vasco replied just as quietly. “Who’d need a knife to frighten a chicken anyway?”

“One of these Kheldour lads, obviously.” Sean-Seamus laughed at his own joke.

The tent flap was pushed back and a short, broadly built man with fierce red hair and clad in Kheldour tweeds emerged. “Alright, what’s all this fuss about?”

“He says he has a letter for you from Prince Cinhil?”

The man – Lord Keene, unless Vasco was mistaken – nodded impatiently. “And does he?”

“I’d show you, but I’m a little tied up,” offered Vasco.

“You don’t exactly look like a prince’s aide. Where is it?”

“In my wallet.” Vasco nodded down to the stout bag still at his waist. “And as for my grooming, it’s been a busy week.”

Keene opened it and reached in, only to swear and pull his hand back. “You’ve a knife in there.”

“Your man didn’t think it was a threat.”

The redhead scowled and ran one finger across the small cut on his finger before retrieving the letter more carefully. He examined the wax seal carefully before breaking it and unfolding the letter.

“Untie them, Graham,” he ordered at last. “This is Cinhil’s seal and I recognise his handwriting. It seems we’re only a few miles from his army and perhaps not so much further from Prince Jolyon’s. My apologies for the caution, Sir Vasco but there’s been little news from the west so we’re unsure what might have happened.”

“It’s quite understandable, my lord. It’s the same reason his highness didn’t set out his orders in writing.”

Keene gestured towards his pavilion. “Come inside and I’ll send Graham to wake Lord Drummond so you only need to go through the orders once.”

.o0o.

The river plain of the Cleyde was packed full of men as Vasco crested the rise looking down upon it.

A scant few hours of sleep snatched before dawn had refreshed him at the time but now after hours on the march it felt as if it had been too little.

The sight before him swept all that away.

The Cleyde was fordable here but the small army of levies from around Grecotha, reinforced by the Bishop’s household guards and a handful of men at arms in the livery of Culdi, held the other shore. Their placement couldn’t have been better for they closed the gates to the south as Cinhil’s army formed a solid line across the north-west, the Cassan schiltron along the river and flanking the vengeful Kierney-men in the centre. The left flank of the Haldane line had evidently been the Prince and his Haldane lancers, now driving deep into the Mearans, heavy lowland horses and their well-armoured riders taking a toll on the enemy light cavalry.

Banners waved above the field, marking out the commander’s places. Duke Tambert had somehow crossed the river at some point for his banner swayed above the Cassani while to the south Culdi’s banner was conjoined with the episcopal standard of Grecotha and even a ducal banner for Carthmoor, all the rightful sigils of Jashan Haldane though few if any of the southern duchies’ men would be with him this day.

The two most critical banners – those of Prince Jolyon and Prince Cinhil – flew above the cavalry melee, the roaring lion of Gwynedd and the dancing bear of Meara never quite managing to close upon each other.

“We’ve arrived in time, Lord Keene.”

The general nodded, eyes sweeping the battle. “We’ll do this as planned then. Will you stand with my footmen, Sir Vasco?”

“It would be my honour, Lord Keene, but my place is with the prince.”

“Good luck then.” They shook hands and Keene rode to the head of the infantry companies, to lead them down to the river and begin a sweep westwards and close the door upon the Mearans. Vasco turned instead to the general’s cousin.

“Lord Drummond.”

“We’re more than ready, Sir Vasco.” The Baron’s son – likely the Baron himself soon, for his father had reached Grecotha strapped to his saddle, wounds already festering – was of a colder, grimmer temper than his distant cousin. “You’ll be so good as to ride at my right?”

Vasco moved to the correct position, seeing Sean-Seamus attaching himself to the rear of the line of horsemen. “Gladly, sir.”

Drummond rose up in his stirrups. “See there, lads! That’s the banner of Meara and below it is that cur Jolyon of Meara, the fetid dog that thought to gnaw on Gwynedd’s bones. Kill him and their whole army falls apart! Now ride!” He spurred his horse forwards, perhaps forgetting in his excitement that he led Claibourne men. “Marlor forever!”

“A Haldane!” shouted Vasco and then, remembering who he led, “MacEwan!”

“MacEwan! A Haldane!” roared out voices behind him and the cavalcade of riders descended into the cauldron of battle.

On their own the charge of a hundred more men might not have turned the tide. But for all their long ride that morning, the Claibourne horsemen were better rested than those already in the battle and they crashed into the flanks of men already engaged.

Vasco’s fine R’Kassi gelding bowled over one Mearan, trampling down the rider and battering his way deeper towards Jolyon’s banner.

A sword clattered off Vasco’s shield and he ducked slightly, looping his sword around in a feint before stabbing into the throat of a gorget-less Mearan. Glancing to his left he could no longer see who might have struck at his shield so he forced his horse onwards.

The Mearan banner seemed to be getting closer despite the difficulty making progress and Vasco cut down another rider before suddenly breaking out of the knot of fighting into one of the brief gaps between lines of combatants.

Directly ahead of him, seeming much surprised at the appearance of a knight wearing Haldane colours, was Prince Jolyon himself, his banner bearer and two of his household knights. They must have been moving to rally the flank against this new threat.

Hoping he wasn’t alone in breaking through, Vasco turned his horses head directly towards Jolyon. “A Haldane!”

“To me, Mearans!” shouted the prince, his guards sweeping forward to block Vasco. His gelding crashed against one, shoulder against shoulder, the two riders striking savagely at each other, shields out of position.

Vasco was barely aware of a shout: “Marloooor!” before Drummond MacEwan’s lance smote the second knight. Focused entirely on Vasco, the man had no chance to do more than cry out as he was unhorsed.

An instant later and Vasco’s own opponent gave a startled cry and had to leap clear of his collapsing mount, the doughty Sean-Seamus having pushed forward and brained the horse with his battleaxe.

Jolyon’s own lance wasn’t in evidence and Drummond discarded the splinters of his own, grimly closing in upon the older man who rode forward with equal fervor.

Ignoring both Vasco charged the banner-bearer and burdened by the pole, the knight had only one hand to defend himself with. Vasco was in no mood to deal chivalrously with him and feinted to draw the man’s sword away before following up with a slice to the throat of the banner-bearer’s horse.

He seized the banner as the knight was brought down, one leg trapped in the stirrups and thus beneath the weight of his horse. Raising Meara’s banner above his head, Vasco turned it and drove the head and silks down into the blood and muck. It caught on something and with Vasco and his gelding’s weight against it, the shaft snapped.

There was a sound something like a sigh in the air.

“Mearans!” Jolyon screamed out, trying to affirm that he lived still.

Then Drummond swept his sword around in a short arc and it hammered into the prince’s neck below his helm. Stunned, Jolyon slumped in the saddle and dropped his sword. Unsatisfied, Drummond drew back his sword, aimed carefully and then thrust at the arm-pit where the mail had to be weakest. There was a dreadful crunch and rich crimson blood spilled furiously from the prince’s body.

.o0o.

“By God, this for glory,” murmured Cinhil, looking down on the fallen on the shores of the Cleyde.

Jolyon Justinian Jedediah Quinnell, Sovereign Prince of Meara lay dead before the prince, but he was far from alone in that.

The Mearan’s trapped from all sides had fought with a fury until, late in the day, a force led by one of the Mearna earls - Kincaid of Kildaren some said - had managed to force the Grecotha levies back from the south shore and escape that way.

Others had flung themselves into the water and let it sweep them downstream. Those who managed to escape the water’s grasp might well manage to return to the hills and mountains of Meara.

At this moment Vasco didn’t begrudge them that. No knight could be a stranger to death but here the Archangel Uriel must surely weep as he gathered the dead of both sides.

Sir Roger McLain wouldn’t rule Kierney in his wife’s name for he’d died somewhere in the melee and been trampled until only his torn surcoat let him be identified. Twice bereft, Glorian McInnis-McLain would now need to lean upon their sons Tairchell and Arnall.

“No, Cinhil,” disagreed Bishop Jashan. “There’s no glory here. But there’s a lesson here for those with eyes to see.”

“Do teach me uncle.”

“This is defeat.” The Bishop crouched beside Jolyon, examined the man’s face and then looked up seriously. “It is what Kyprian of Torenth and his kinsman Marek would have us suffer. Do not diminish those who’ve bled for Gwynedd or fallen for her by equating his state here to your own.”

Cinhil shook his head. “I do not. But I can grieve yet that his ambition demanded that the price be paid.”

“For that I can at least grant you absolution. And perhaps a higher judge will also absolve Jolyon his part in this.” Nonetheless, he took Jolyon’s hands and crossed them across the dead prince’s breast before standing again. “What would you do with his earthly remains?”

“Do you think I’d despoil his body? Cut it into quarters and display them in all the parts of the Kingdom?”

“It has been done before.”

Cinhil shook his head. “But I will not.” He turned to Duke Tambert. “Your Highness, for all he was our enemy, this man was a kinsman to your house. Will you have his body carried north to Cassan and laid to rest amongst your Quinnell ancestors.”

“Since you ask it of me, Your Highness, I shall. And if his daughters ask the return of his remains...?”

“Then I shall have no objection. Neither my father nor I sought war with Meara, and perhaps if we treat gently with them there shall not be more bloodshed between our two kingdoms. God grant this has been enough.”


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

 _But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judaea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the Earth_  
Acts 1:8

At first Roisian thought little of the summons from her mother to the great hall. Her father had been diligent in sending regular messages back to Laas to inform his family of his wellbeing. As his heir presumptive she sat upon the council of state to whom these missives were formally addressed to.

Only when she saw faces pale and the officials of the court bowing deeply towards her were her suspicious aroused.

“What news?” Her twin stepped innocently past Roisian as she faltered. “Has father won another victory?”

The men parted without voice to reveal their mother and a travel-stained messenger. She stood tall and pale-faced, resolute and yet in some way that Roisian could not assess, diminished somehow.

Gathering herself, Roisian touched her sister’s shoulder and gestured for her to go to Urracca’s side. She herself ascended the dais and stood before her father’s throne. “I surmise that you are the bearer of ill news,” the princess forced herself to say. “I am come now, tell me all.”

The messenger fell to his knees. “Oh, Your Highness. The news is dire. I… I must inform you that your father lies dead.”

Roisian had felt herself steeled somewhat since Culdi against this. The numbness that took her voice taught her otherwise.

“It’s not true!” protested Annalind. “It can’t be true.”

“Please sister. Let him speak. Now sir, speak truly to me. How has this come to be?”

The man looked up at Roisian. “My lady he fell in battle. Our army was caught at the Cleyde by that of Cinhil, who is son of Gwynedd’s King. Prince Jolyon fought valiantly but reinforcements came unheralded upon our flank and he was struck down. Some say that it was a Haldane knight who slew him and others that it was the Baron of Marlor.”

Roisian couldn’t call to mind where Marlor was but decided it hardly mattered.

“Good knight,” intervened Lord Stuart, her father’s… no, now Roisian’s Constable. “How stands the prince’s army? Indeed, who leads them now?”

The knight lowered his head, gaze upon the flagstones of the hall. “The greater part are dead or scattered, my lord. The Earl of Kildaren commands the greater part – perhaps a thousand strong – and sends word that he will seek to cross the Cuille at Trurill. Lord James Ramsay - your pardon, Earl James – felt this unwise and with some hundreds marched south to try crossing the mountains south of Culdi.”

Earl James? Yes, of course, for Lere Ramsay had died some days before. She had been ashamed at the relief she felt. It seemed now so small and so far away. She felt her eyes prickling.

No. Father had entrusted her with the responsibility to be his heir. Her first act as Meara’s sovereign could not be to burst into public tears.

“I feel sure that the council has further questions for you, sir,” Roisian managed to force out. “My mother and sisters must prepare the court for mourning and there are many matters of state to be addressed. Pray gather such officers of the court that have not already arrived to give me their formal oaths and offer counsel here after the noon hour.”

There was a rustle of clothes as the assembled men bowed to her. “God save our princess,” Stuart said in the hush.

Holding her head high, Roisian went to her mother and Annalind, the two still clutching each other, and drew them with her out of the hall.

“Oh Roisian, what shall we do?” Annalind demanded.

“We will do as your father would have wanted.” Their mother took Roisian’s hand and kissed her cheek. “That was well done, my dear. Jolyon would be so proud of you.”

Roisian nodded gratefully and let her mother hold her, tears spilling free at last down her cheeks.

“Annalind, go ahead and have the maids lay out mourning dresses for us.” Her eldest daughter’s tears seemed to bring Urracca back from her own grief. “We shall need veils and –“

The bell tower began to toll slowly and sonorously , informing the people of Laas and all around the town that death had touched the family of their prince. At the sound, Urracca faltered. “Oh how shall I tell Magrette that her papa will not come home?”

“I will tell her,” Roisian promised. She took a handkerchief and wiped at her tears. “Please mother, go with Annalind. She has always been the most highly-strung of us and she will need you more than any of us.”

“Oh my dear. I shall be there for you too.” Urracca clutched at Roisian. “The lords will press you hard, Roisian, for each will think to rule Meara through you. You must be strong though and remember that your Torenthi prince will come for you once he has avenged your dear father.”

“I will be strong, mother.” God grant me that strength, for I know not where else I may find it now.

The new-made dowager rested her forehead against Roisian’s. “I know you will, dear heart. Just mind your mother’s words,” she added, seemingly innocent of the irony in the statement, “And all will be well at the last.”

.o0o.

“Sire, the armies of the Pretender are ravaging the lands.” Custus Howell was little older than Prince Jaron but with the death of his father Ivaar confirmed the boy was now rightful Earl of Eastmarch and one of the most powerful men in Gwynedd. “Lord Kennet, my uncle, sends words that his army has sent out bands of men to seize all food in their path. Those villages that bow their knees to Marek as king are told that it is their tribute to him while those that do not are put to the sword and the village burned.”

“The peasants are fleeing the land and the harvests for those who remain will be a meagre yield. I fear that the armies of the east will be only our first trial, for famine follows on their heels.”

Urien nodded his head wearily. “Famine follows war, Earl Custus. We must pray that plague does not also ride on the heels of the armies. You may rest assured that what may be done for the plight of Eastmarch and all other lands to suffer in this war shall be done.”

Duke Tresham scratched at his beard. “Does your uncle also write of where Marek’s army marches?”

“Aye, Your Highness. He reckons they march towards the Falling Water River, to reach it not far from Saint Piran’s Priory.”

The Earl Marshal frowned. “They’re well advised then. We’ve broken the bridges along the river to slow the advance but there’s a ford near Saint Piran’s that we can’t do much about.”

Custus leant over and touched the map. “Just there, sir. A little south of the priory. The nearest village is Schilling, on the west bank. It’s a broad ford, wide and shallow. There’s little that can be done to block that.”

“Only men can block it.” Tresham looked at the map. “My son Geoffrey and Earl Becan are already marching south along the Falling Water. With less than two thousand men they can’t do more than slow down Kyprian’s armies but there’s no place more likely for that then this Schilling ford.”

A hammering at the door drew Donal away from his place beside the King and he threw it open to reveal the unexpected but welcome sight of a bright-eyed but haggard Malcolm Haldane and Anscom Drummond, both mud splattered by the road and the old priest looking almost grey with exhaustion. “Your Highness! I hadn’t looked for you to arrive so soon.”

“We had to change horses and ride through the night, I must speak to my father.”

Donal stood aside. “Sire, Prince Malcolm has returned.” He shot an inquisitive look at Anscom before taking his old teacher’s arm. *You look half-dead.*

*I’ve learned that fatigue-banishing spells are no match for youthful enthusiasm,* Anscom replied dourly. *By the time we passed Ramos I was almost ready to prepare myself for last rites. We have the Eye though, and some more good news.*

“There’s been a great victory on the Cleyde.” The young prince was speaking slightly more loudly than was perhaps proper and with a keen eye, Donal saw that he was leaning on the table. “Prince Jolyon is dead and his army fleeing back to Meara. Cinhil’s sent a report –“ He produced a letter, still sealed. “- but the courier broke his leg near Tarleyville so I brought it with me.”

Urien accepted the letter and passed it to Duke Tresham to break the seal and read. “Tell me what you can, Malcolm. Our last news was from Keene MacEwan warning that the Kierney forces had been scattered and he was marching west to support Cinhil.”

“Cinhil’s well, father,” Malcolm offered hasty reassurance. “The courier said that he wasn’t even wounded. Jaron was in two skirmishes near Culdi but he’s fine too and missed the battle at Cleyde. Cinhil’s left his wounded at Marlor and he’s marching east with every able man as fast as he can.”

“That’s a great relief. Does that change the situation, Duke Tresham?”

“Aye.” Handing the letter back to the King, the Duke of Claibourne turned the map a little. “The prince wants to halt the Torenthi before they reach Valoret and with his army then I like our chances. Archbishop Marcus, the ecclesiastical levies are mostly assembled from what you said earlier.”

“All but a detachment from Dhassa. Bishop Leontius is marching north through the Lendours with Earl Euan to concentrate at Caerrorie. We’ve had a great many volunteers from the goodly tenant farmers around Valoret, so we are bolstered in numbers and in faith.”

“Hmm. And no news still from Corwyn. I’m sorry, Sire, but it seems that Duke Jernian may have betrayed us.”

“I wouldn’t wish to say that of any of my Dukes but if you are right, Tresham, then we’ll be able to repay him in due time. For now, we must focus upon Kyprian and Marek.”

“You’re right of course. My apologies. M’lord Archbishop, I’ll have our levies here and your men march north on the west bank of the Falling Water. The river bends east towards Saint Piran’s and then west again north o’ the Ford. Even if they get across, we may be able to catch them in the cup the river forms. The road east from Grecotha goes that way so it’s ideal for meeting with Prince Cinhil’s army.”

“I’ll send word to Bishop Leontius to join us there as swiftly as he can then.”

“Aye. And Earl Euan too. So now it’s all a matter of how long Geoffrey MacEwan, Becan Coris and Braham de Traherne can hold them at Saint Piran’s and the ford.” The Duke shook his head slowly. “They’re steady,” he said as much to himself as he did to the rest of the council. “They’re steady men.”

Urien looked at Donal and the knight nodded his understanding. With the armies about to march this would be to all practical purposes their only opportunity to activate the King’s potential.

“We have some busy days ahead of us then,” the King announced. “Save for those with unavoidable duties we should all rest well, for we will have many long days and weary nights ahead of us. Before then, Archbishop, I would think it mete that you ask God’s blessing on our purpose.”

“Of course.” Archbishop Marcus rose to his feet and beckoned his fellow Archbishop from Rhemuth to join him.

.o0o.

Anscom’s face was dourer than ever as he climbed the stairs up King’s Tower to the royal apartments. A few hours sleep had mended his demeanor so Donal was at a loss as to the cause of this fresh upset.

“What now?” he asked in a low voice as he gestured for Anscom to wait. “You taught me yourself not to take anger into a ritual.”

“Aye, I know.” The old priest took a deep breath. “It’s just… the garderobe down there.”

“What about it?”

“There’s a Transfer Portal there! I could have avoided a long, hard ride and risking my life on that boat if we’d known that.”

“There’s what?”

“It makes sense really. The Festillic Kings used these chambers once, so they’d have wanted one nearby – but far enough from the apartment that it couldn’t be used against them.”

“In a garderobe?”

“It was probably rebuilt later.” Anscom sighed. “Well at least we know now. I trust you won’t mind if I use it to make a discreet departure from Valoret once we’re done. Sooner or latter someone will realise I’m not from any order of the Church of Gwynedd and questions will be asked.”

“I don’t mind in the least. It’s probably for the best you didn’t arrive that way though. Can you imagine the fuss if you’d arrived and some poor fellow was making use of it?”

Anscom’s lips twitched. “That probably wouldn’t have been easy to explain,” he conceded, his annoyance fading. “And tampering with someone’s memories wouldn’t have been the ideal first step on arrival.”

Donal nodded and then gestured for him to step back as the door to the apartments opened.

“That will be all tonight,” Urien instructed his squires. “Sir Donal will see to anything further I need until morning.”

The two boys bowed and exited the royal bedchamber, one of them giving Anscom a curious look. The old man raised his hand. “Bless you, my son.”

“Bless you, father,” the squire replied automatically.

“Father Andrew is here as the Prince’s confessor, Jerome” Donal explained quickly. “Just until formal arrangements are made.”

Satisfied, Jerome followed his fellow down the stairs. Rather than placing guards at the King’s door, Donal had taken the opportunity of arranging to post the guards at the bottom of the stair, pointing out there was no other way in and the small antechamber of the old tower wouldn’t really leave room for more than a single guard anyway.

Inside the chamber, King Urien sat by his writing desk while Prince Malcolm stood at the window. “Have you explained this to the prince, Sire?” asked Donal carefully.

“You intend to grant father the powers of a Deryni, like yourself.” The doubt was evident in the young prince’s voice. “I understood Deryni to be born, not… empowered in this fashion.”

“We are born as we are,” Anscom explained, going to where a jug of wine rested on top of one of the chests that held the King’s wardrobe. “With our own strengths and weaknesses, the latter including the need for long and sometimes challenging education to bring forth to its full potential. While your father… and perhaps yourself… are heirs to a similar legacy, it’s one that differs in some respects.” He uncapped the jug, sniffed and then nodded in satisfaction. “I realise you’re fresh from a Custodes seminary and they’ve always had strong feelings upon our kind, but you’ve had far from the full story.”

“We don’t have time for that story, do we?”

“No, Your Highness. If you prefer not to participate…”

“No.” Urien shook his head and beckoned to his son. “I’m sorry Malcolm but in this case I must insist. Cinhil isn’t here and there are too many uncertainties. As your father and as your king, I need you to accept at least to accept the potential for you to bear these powers. You may never need them, but if I fall in the days to come it may fall to you to pass them on to Cinhil or even to wield them yourself.”

Malcolm bit his lip. “I understand the threat the Festil’s pose but…” He looked to Donal and Anscom before his father. “Is this the only way?”

“There are those who believe God bestowed this potential to your House,” the knight told him. “Entrusting you with the means to protect Gwynedd from another Festillic Interregnum and also not to abuse these powers as they did. I can’t tell you if that’s true, but I can tell you that without them, your father will be fearfully vulnerable.”

“I don’t know what I’ll tell my confessor about this.”

“If you feel you must confess it, then do so to Father Anscom before he leaves.” Urien’s voice was firm. “Then Donal won’t be guilty of misleading my squires. His vows are as valid as those you may take one day, even the Archbishops have agreed that the Church of Bremagne invests its priests with the same duties and authorities as we do here, even if they’d prefer that the Bremagnians not extend the investiture to Deryni.”

Anscom took a taper, lit it in the fire and began lighting candles, praying under his breath as Donal rolled away the thick Kheldour carpet that covered much of the floor. The knight moved the tall candelabra’s to mark each of the four Quarters and then, within the space so circumscribed he trailed a white thread, marking out a circle save for one gap. Taking his sword he laid it carefully with the tip touching the thread and extending the hilt into the circle like an open door.

With the candles lit, Anscom passed them to Donal and as the knight placed one in each candelabra the priest moved filled a bowl with holy water from a flask he’d obtained earlier. Slowly he walked around the outside of the circle, scattering droplets of water with his fingertips, head lowered in prayer.

Donal waited until the line had been completed, droplets of water clinging to the wooden floor. Then he walked smoothly to snuff out the other candles in the room until the chamber was lit only by the four candles and the glow of the fire.

“Donal will ward the circle,” Anscom explained quietly. “But before you enter, please drink from these.” He offered king and prince each one of the three goblets that had been left with the wine. He held a third himself but made no move to drink.

“Is this… just wine?” asked Malcolm nervously.

“No.” Anscom’s voice was matter-of-fact. “There’s a small sedative in it. Not enough to put you to sleep but enough to dull some of your senses… and open certain others.”

Urien sipped from his own goblet and made a face. “It’s no way to treat a good vintage.”

Donal smiled sympathetically at Malcolm’s hesitation to do likewise, remembering his own doubts the first time he participated in such a ritual, no older but far better prepared. “Do you really think we’d go to all this trouble if we were planning to poison you, Your Highness?”

“I suppose not.” Malcolm tossed back the wine and almost choked on it, the three older men careful not to laugh at him.

Donal ushered the King to pass through the gateway he’d left in the circle and stepped aside to let Anscom guide the prince after him. All three knelt in prayer, Anscom placing the goblet he’d brought before on the stone and laid beside it the Crimson Lion, the Eye of Rom and the other items he’d prepared. Looking up the priest nodded to Donal.

Lifting his sword gently, Donal carefully didn’t let the tip leave the thread, instead very carefully tracing the line of the circle once more upon the stone as he moved slowly, ceremoniously towards the eastern candle.

“Saint Raphael, Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest, may we be guarded and healed in mind and soul and body this night,” he whispered, dipping his head in submission. When he raised his eyes the candle’s light seemed to have shifted slightly from the usual pale flame to something more golden.

Then to the south, the sound of his sword’s tip on the stone the only sound that accompanied him. “Saint Michael, Defender, Guardian of Eden, protect us in our hour of need.” This time when he looked up, the candle glowed a warm crimson and he felt the flow of power building both outside and within the circle, knowing that he and the sword he bore were still a bridge between the two.

To the west and the words spilled from his lips, head ducking in reverence. “Saint Gabriel, Heavenly Herald, carry our supplications to Our Lady.” It didn’t surprise him that the candle light flickered blue but he caught the sound of a gasp of surprise from Malcolm.

Donal braced himself for the last of the four Guardians, that of the north. “Saint Uriel, Dark Angel,” he invoked the presence. “Come gently, if you must, and let all fear die here in this place.” Now Donal closed the circle at last, seeing silvery light spring up around the line he had drawn as his sword tip at last left the thread and scraped across the floor to touch the point from which he’d begun.

Raising the sword before him in salute, its weight seemed multiplied – as it surely should – and it was with relief that he lowered it once again, across the gap in the thread, leaving the circle closed but yet with a gate that could be opened again at need.

He turned to the three within the circle. “We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we join together and are One. By Thy Blessed Apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Three to guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High. Thus it is and has always been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

“Amen,” whispered Anscom, Urien and even Malcolm and they crossed themselves with him.

Anscom rose and turned to the king. “Urien Owain Rhys Michael Haldane. Thou has been consecrated to the service of thy people. I speak now for your father who was consecrated before you and for the Kings and forefathers before him. I say to you, do not fear.”

Taking a pin he gently drew the king’s hand forward and pierced it. Removing the pin, Anscom took the Eye of Rom from beside him and squeezing the flesh until a droplet of blood fell into the great cabochon ruby of the earring. “Though the cords of the nether wold enmesh thee, though the snares of death surge about thee, thou shalt fear no evil. With his pinions the Lord will cover thee, and under His wings thou shalt take refuge.” He made the sign of the cross over the King’s head. “In Nomine Patris et Fils et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

“Amen,” the king whispered.

Anscom placed his hand upon the royal brow again in further, more personal, blessing. A look of comprehension appeared on Urien’s face before the priest moved to Malcolm where he pricked the son’s thumb as he had the father, again touching the Eye of Rom to prince’s blood and then doing the same with the Prince’s signet ring.

And then he lifted the ring and Eye of Rom together, placing them within the waiting goblet. This, unlike the others, was filled with not wine but holy water obtained from the Royal Chapel earlier in the day.

Donal shivered as he saw the old man stand. He’d merely, if that could be said of any working like this, invoked the presences outside the circle as wardens to protect them from malign influences. Now Anscom would invoke them again to do far more than only that.

The priest raised up the goblet to the east. “Thou who forms the light and create darkness,” he whispered. “Thou O Lord that art the font of all holiness, we ask thy blessing upon thy servant Urien. In humility we come before you in supplication, begging your supplication in what we must do this night.”

Holding the goblet in one hand and extending the other above it, he extended it in offering towards the golden candle. “We pray Thee now send thy holy Archangel Raphael, O Lord, to breathe upon this water and make it holy, that they who shall drink of it may be worthy to master the element of Air. Amen.”

Donal trembled as Anscom lowered his hand from the rim of the goblet to secure it in both hands as a wind leapt up, stirring even his border braid and ruffling the ebon locks of the Haldanes. White hair flew around Anscom’s tonsured head like a halo as the storm swept down upon him… and then it was past and there was a sense of completion to it as the last trace of the wind, ripples in the water, faded.

He expected Anscom to continue but instead the priest gestured for him to take the goblet, confidence in his face. Reverently, Donal obeyed and held the goblet as Anscom had, in offering, he extended it towards the red light in the south. “We pray Thee now send thy holy Archangel Michael, O Lord, to instill this water with the fire of thy love and make it holy, that they who drink of it may be have the strength to command the element of Fire. Amen.”

The knight felt his hand above the goblet drawn aside by another and fire glowed a handspan above the goblet, a sphere of fire so bright that he feared himself blinded for a moment. Then with a hiss the egg-sized flames descended into the waters which seethed and bubbled for moments after.

Anscom gave him the smile of a proud teacher and took the cup once more, signalling that Donal should move around him to the north. Facing west, the priest raised the goblet to the blue candle. “We pray Thee now send thy holy Archangel Gabriel, O Lord, who rules the storm waters, to fill this cup with the rain of thy wisdom, that those who drink from it may justly call up the element of Water. Amen.”

In the centre of the circle, Malcolm gasped again and Donal saw the king take his son’s hand in comfort. It was the western quarter that had startled the prince before, perhaps suggesting that in some way Malcolm possessed in himself a greater sensitivity to the element of Water or one of the other associations of that quarter. Thunder rolled and a gentle rain fell upon them all, soaking Anscom’s hair around his skull.

This time Donal was ready when Anscom passed him the goblet, though he found the outside running with beads of water. He raised it high this time, facing towards the north and the green candle that marked the last of the Quarters. “We pray Thee now, O Lord, let Uriel, Thy messenger of darkness and of death, instill this cup with all the strengths and secrets of earth that they whom drink from it be invested with the virtue to direct the element of Earth.”

The Eye of Rom and the ring shook within the goblet and Donal used both hands to hold the goblet steady as the room seemed to shake fiercely around them. Anscom fell, caught by Malcolm who impulsively threw his arms out to spare the Deryni a potentially disastrous collision with the stone floor. The floor itself was trembling beneath Donal’s feet and he had to flex his knees as if on a ship in order to remain steady until at last the tremors faded.

With a sigh he moved his hand back above the top of the goblet and offered it to Anscom once the old man had risen to his knees.

“Thank you Donal. And thank you, Prince Malcolm.” Anscom took the goblet between his hands and lowered his head in prayer. “O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed, the fountain of all holiness. Through this sacrament we consecrate again your servant Urien as protector of his people. Give the king Thy judgement, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king’s son.”

For an instant the priest’s face was transformed, to one unfamiliar to Donal, the white hair replaced with silver gilt and the eyes more serene and compassionate than any the young Deryni had seen. “The cup is ready, Sire. Drink. By this mystery you shall come to the power which is your divine right, as king of this realm, and even so shall you instruct your son and his brothers also should that need come to pass.”

Donal blinked at the apparition that seemed to have replaced his teacher. Urien, for his part, seemed oblivious and reached up to take the goblet. Without hesitation he placed it against his lips and tilted it back, pouring the contents into his mouth until he had to lower it and gasp for breath.

Anscom, himself again, took the goblet back. “How do you feel, Sire?”

“I…” Urien shook his head. “I’m not sure. There’s something different but…”

“Remember, this only sets the potential in place for you. We’ve yet to activate the powers.” The priest tilted his head in thought. “They have always been there but until now you’ve had no means to use them. What we’ve just done is like creating a lock that you can use to open yourself to them. The next step is to give you the key.”

Urien looked at him and then squared his shoulders. “How do we begin?”

Anscom held out the goblet. “If you’d take the Eye of Rom?”

The king looked at him askance and used two fingers to reach into the remaining contents and fish out the earring. Anscom accepted it and set the goblet aside before fastiduously wiping the jewel dry. “You’ve not worn anything on your ear since your coronation so we’ll need to pierce it again.”

Urien smiled and swept his hair back from over his right ear to reveal that it had already been done. “I knew this was coming,” he explained wryly. “It was no secret I’d sent for the Eye of Rom so there’s nothing suspicious in my having my ear pierced in readiness.”

“Well that spares us that step.” Anscom reached forwards and carefully secured the ruby in place with the golden pin. “Is that comfortable?”

“Yes. So now that I’m wearing it...?”

“It’s a requirement, not the key in and of itself.” Anscom lifted the Crimson Lion from where it had rested through the ceremonies so far. “It’s what you do next that will serve as our key.”

“What do I do with it?”

“There’s always a test of courage.” The priest looked slightly pained. “You’ll need to pierce your hand with the lion’s tooth.”

“The lion on this brooch faces me, Father Anscom. It has no tooth I can pierce myself with.”

“Yes it does.” The old priest reached forwards and guided the king’s questing fingers to the clasp on the back, three inches of gleaming gold.


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

 _Behold, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tested you in the furnace of affliction._  
Isaiah 48:10

“Are you serious?” Malcolm exclaimed. “He can’t do that! No one could possibly miss an injury like that.”

“I’m not suggesting he push it through his palm, Prince Malcolm. It’s likely your father will need to hold a sword soon and, alas, we have no Healers any more to close such a wound. The flesh between the thumb and his first finger should suffice. But he has to do this and he has to do this himself.”

Urien raised his eyebrows. “So this is my trial?”

“We’re dealing with considerable power, Sire. Anyone in contact with you would also be in contact with that power and we’ve no guidance on what the consequences of that would be. At best it could simply fail entirely. At worst…”

“I see.” Urien looked back at Donal. “It would be a shame to come this far and then fail at the final hurdle.”

“It’s likely you’ll find the aftermath disorientating to say the least,” Anscom added apologetically. “Having never witnessed this before, I can’t be more specific. All I can promise you is that it will awaken nothing within you that isn’t already there.”

“In that case,” he gestured for them all to move as far back as they could from him within the bounds of the circle.

The trio moved together before where the blue light of Gabriel’s candle still glowed while Urien moved closer to Raphael’s candle in the east. Donal prudently took a firm hold of Malcolm’s wrist, the prince barely noticing in his concern.

Urien toyed with the brooch a moment, steeling himself for the act, Donal thought; before taking it in his right hand and touching the tip of the clasp to the flesh. “Nothing so far,” he noted for their benefit. “Courage, Malcolm.”

And then he thrust the clasp home with a single sharp movement.

The king gasped and when he looked towards them again his eyes were glassy and clearly fixed not upon them but upon something only he could see.

“What have you done?” Malcolm whispered in dread. “What have I let you do?”

The Eye of Rom glowed softly in the darkness of the room though, its light spreading slowly across the kneeling king until he was illuminated entirely in gold before them, the lines of age seeming to fade away.

And then the light flickered and was gone. Urien slowly fell forwards and to one side, sprawling upon the stone floor.

Donal released Malcolm and the two of them went to the king’s side. While the prince carefully pulled the brooch clasp out of his father’s flesh, Donal checked his pulse and peeled back one eyelid. Fortunately the former was strong and the latter dilated normally.

“Is he well? Did it work?”

“His pulse is strong. As for the rest, we won’t know until he wakes. And that might not be until morning.”

“I’d rather not take you word for that.” Malcolm crossed his arms defiantly. “He told you to set my potential too, but I won’t let you do that until I know you’ve not addled his wits.”

“Are all the Haldanes this stubborn?” asked Anscom bluntly, looking over at Donal.

“No, he’s still growing into it.”

Anscom shook his head and then knelt to touch Urien. “Well everything seems in order, I don’t suppose there’s any harm.”

Grey eyes popped open and Urien seized hold of Anscom’s wrist before equally suddenly he released it. A slow smile crept across his face. “This… yes, I understand now.”

“You do?” asked Anscom. “What do you understand?”

“All of this.” Urien spread his hands to indicate the ritual circle. “It’s remarkable… as if I’d always known but now…” He pulled himself up to a sitting position. “You said it was a like a key but it’s more like drawing back a curtain. It reveals things I never saw before.”

“I imagine you’ll find Mass in the morning quite the experience,” Donal warned. “I remember how I grew to appreciate it more as my own education progressed. But for you that may happen all at once.”

“Father?”

The king rose and enfolded his son in his arms. “It’s alright Malcolm. There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is the legacy our family has carried for a hundred years already. God grant that I don’t fall to the temptations the Festils did with their own powers.”

“History suggests that your ancestors found it best to be judicious in their use of it,” Anscom said drily. “Which may be difficult upon the battlefield but I always thought half the stories from the battlefield tend to exaggerate feats of heroism anyway.”

“Which will probably be fortunate.” Urien folded his arms. “And when were you planning to reveal that you were Corwin Drummond’s son? I might not remember you well, but he was at court quite a bit when he was around his age. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“I wasn’t planning to at all.” Anscom gave Urien a look that was similarly stubborn. “I left Gwynedd for a reason, Sire. Your Church would rather I burned at a stake than that I wear this cassock. How can I call Gwynedd home when that’s the case?”

Urien lowered his head. “I don’t suppose I can argue against that. So what do we do next?”

“Well I believe you wanted Prince Malcolm’s potential set. Unless you’ve changed your mind about that?”

When Urien shook his head and started to rise, Donal put one hand on his shoulder. “You should probably sit this one out. What you’ve done so far may have taken more out of you than you realised.”

.o0o.

“You could have warned me you wanted me to call on Michael and Uriel for you. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Anscom nodded as they descended the stairs towards the hidden Transfer Portal. “I’m sorry about that. Calling on Raphael took more out of me than I realised. I don’t do ritual work on that scale often these days, even the Bremagne church would prefer a Deryni priest doesn’t make too obvious use of his magic. I almost fainted while I was passing Urien the goblet. That probably wouldn’t have reassured young Malcolm.”

“I think almost sitting on him when I called Uriel probably accustomed him to the idea you weren’t in the best of health.” Donal paused, thinking of the face he’d seen in Anscom’s place at that moment.

“Is something the matter?”

“No. I’m tired too and I’ve got a long ride tomorrow.” If he broached the matter now, at best Anscom would want to talk about it well into what remained of the night and he might even take offense. Better to reflect on it later when he was more rested.

Anscom stopped at the bottom of the stairs and then took Donal’s hand. “We’ve done good work tonight I think. We’d better make sure it’s properly documented though. There’s no knowing if Urien or Malcolm will live to pass on the means of activating their potential to the next generation of Haldane kings.”

“It is looking rather like the same circumstances that led to the information being lost the last time.”

“There is one more thing.” The priest looked serious. “I understand Prince Malcolm expects to return to the seminary if he survives the war.”

“I’ve really had no opportunity to discuss that with him. You’ve spent more time in his company than I have.”

“Hmm. Well do what you can to discourage that. I suspect the Church has some means of screening out Deryni who try to take Holy Orders. They did when I was considering it years ago, even identifying a few who had no idea of their heritage. They were all burned of course, for attempting to violate the Statutes of Ramos.”

“You think that whatever they do could detect the Haldane potential. No, that can’t be true. His uncle was ordained as a priest – he’s a bishop for God’s sake!”

“But he didn’t have the potential set the way we have in Malcolm. And what if he’s brought to full potential? He’d almost have to do that if he takes on initiating Prince Cinhil and it’s entirely possible that the similarity to Deryni powers might be apparent to careful testing. I can think of a couple of possibilities and it would be very embarrassing to have a Haldane prince mistaken for a Deryni.”

“To put it mildly! How in the world am I supposed to shake him loose of wanting a career in the Church?” Donal pushed open the door to the garderobe. “For that matter, should you be suggesting that? You’re a priest, you should encourage religious vocations.”

“If it keeps him alive and the Haldanes in power then I’ll gladly answer to God for that one. But in the meantime, see if you can dangle some temporal temptations in front of him. He’s titular Duke of Rhemuth and for that matter, he’s a young, healthy and eligible young man. If that doesn’t suggest any possibilities to a man your own age then I’m afraid for the future of the MacAthan family.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I try to play matchmaker –“

Anscom stepped onto the stone slab of the Transfer Portal and vanished without so much as a farewell.

“- for a royal prince?” Donal groaned and then closed the door of the garderobe. Might as well use the place while he was down the stairs anyway.

.o0o.

The royal pavilion of King Kyprian was less ornamented than those of many of his noble vassals. Years of campaigning had taught the King of Torenth that while humility and poverty might be churchly virtues, the efficiency of his captains could almost always be judged to be an inverse proportion to the ostentatiousness of their field gear.

Strong willed and strong tempered by nature, Kyprian had elected to emulate the officers he prized most in their field habits. More than one courtier had suffered the rough side of the royal tongue over suggestions that he might want something more befitting his station.

Long familiar with his father’s habits, Prince Arkady didn’t make any adverse comment as he was ushered through a tent serving as antechamber and then through beneath an canopy to enter the larger tent that served his father as a throne room in the field.

Sat upon a field stool and wearing his arming tunic under a surcoat in the back and white of the Furstáns; the barrel-chested Kyprian seemed no different than he had done five or even ten years before. “Tell your son that supporting his claim to Gwynedd is one thing but if he wants it he’ll have to do more than march around bullying peasants,” he snapped to his brother-in-law.

Duke Imre remained knelt before the king. “I’ve written to him on that topic already, Sire. May I have your permission to ride south and remind him of his responsibilities personally?”

“You may. Tell Marek I’ll be at the Priory of Saint Piran by dusk in two days but I’ll march not one inch further – not an inch, I say! – until his army has arrived.”

“It shall be as you say, my King.”

Kyprian grunted as if to say ‘of course’, rose to his feet. “Oh stand up, Imre. It’s not you I’m annoyed by. If you were in charge there you’d have brought those troops up here by now. Marek’s got a few things to learn and better you teach him those things than I.”

The Duke of Tolan’s smile was sardonic as he rose and the two men embraced before the Duke backed away with a low bow.

Kyprian’s face creased into a smile as he saw Arkady. “Aha! And here’s a young general who’s learned his trade well,” he added loudly enough for Imre to hear clearly. “Well done fighting Eastmarch, my son. A short sharp battle and you’re right on my flank where you’re supposed to be.”

“It was my honour, father. I understand you intend to encamp on this side of the Falling Water River until cousin Marek joins us.”

“Precisely so. We could press on but the men’ll be better for a day or two to gather their strength. And given the news from the west, the Mearans proved little distraction to Gwynedd so they’re likely to have reinforcements of their own before we reach Valoret.”

“That being the case Sire, there could be an argument for pressing on before the reinforcements arrive.”

“There is, but having the river at our backs would leave us in a tricky position, young sir. We don’t have to force the river there if they’re defending it in force, we can swing north or south and they’ll have to move to meet us. And,” he stabbed one finger towards the side of the tent, symbolically towards the army, “with our hardened troops, we can outmarch them in either direction.”

Arkady bowed resignedly. He had a degree more leeway with his father than most of the other officers but only by a degree. “I am guided by your wisdom, father.”

Kyprian returned to his stool. “So, still no news of the Haldanes themselves? The Mearans claim that Urien’s son led the army that defeated them but has no one seen them facing us?”

“I’ve received no news of them,” Arkady admitted. “The prisoners we’ve questioned claim that the Earl of Rhendall leads the army in front of us and the Earls of Kheldour and Marley are marching a conjoined army south out of Marley.”

“So I’ve been told. And it’s the Earl of Lendour in the mountains to our south. Urien’s son may have some fire in his belly but it seems that Urien himself lacks that.” Kyprian slammed his fists down on his knees. “Thirty years I’ve waited for this, thirty years! If the hordes of the North hadn’t risen, I’d have done this then and placed Imre on the throne. Damn the Norse anyway!”

“His grace of Tolan has many qualities to admire,” Arkady admitted. “But of his elder son… well, you spoke of him when you arrived.”

The king growled. “War has a way of showing a man’s quality. He seemed well enough in the north but only as captain to his father, not with an army of his own. Perhaps as well for a vassal king for he’ll not stir himself enough to be a trouble to you, but as a general… pah. He claims to be ‘stamping his authority’ on his kingdom. Well until Urien and his sons are dead it won’t be his kingdom.”

“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, father, I suspect he’ll be a drain upon the strength of Torenth for if his conduct now is any guide he’ll spark rebellions at every hand.”

“A war every few years will keep your armies strong. See how the Haldane’s forces crumble? Urien has waged no wars in his reign and lacks seasoned officers and generals to do his will? If Marek must call on us then we may bring the manhood of Torenth to full flower expeditions to support him, aye and reward them with lands at his expense. It would not displease me to have the northern lords that lead Urien’s armies against us now replaced with men more loyal to my sons than those of Marek.”

Arkady spread out a map in his mind. “Between that and Nikola ruling as Prince of a reunited Meara, the north would bow to Beldour and Marek would leave his eldest son only the old Haldane lands and those west of the Eiran River.”

“You see it, don’t you?” Kyprian smacked his knees again. “I’ve offered Jernian autonomy in Corwyn and with a little pushing, Marek will grant his younger son the same in Eastmarch, limiting his authority east of the Lendours. Thus we need not concern ourselves that he or his son Festil will grow over-mighty.”

“Has Duke Jernian agreed to your terms then? I had not heard he had replied to your overtures.”

“The old man is a cagey one, I admit, too wise to place aught in writing. He’s been nothing but warm to my heralds though and the last news from Fathane is that the camps of his army along the Western River hold at least a thousand men. If he’d gone north then Marek would have to turn and face him, giving him better excuse for his slow pace north, but since he hasn’t done so I believe we can count on him.”

Arkady frowned. That news should be fairly current since Count Fathane, whose lands lay along the Torenthi side of the Western river was a Deryni himself. He’d not met Count Lipold himself, for he’d been too young to campaign in the northern wars but his father Mihaly had been an accomplished sorcerer and seasoned campaigner, his rule sadly cut short by a northman’s axe three years ago. “Aye, best that he not be in place to bother Marek’s flank then. If his royal highness of Gwynedd is this slow without serious opposition, Corwyn’s levies being on the field would probably lure him further south.”

“Rather necessary in that case, so let’s be grateful to the good Duke’s steady qualities and discontent with his Haldane overlord.” The King rose to his feet. “Now unless my nose deceives me, the cooks have a bullock well roasted and seasoned. You can meet my officers as we dine, there are some promising young men you should have your eye upon for the future.”

.o0o.

While the Arx Fidei’s grand architecture had underlined the power of the anti-Deryni forces within the Church, the ancient priory of St Piran’s had been a major seat of the Ordo Verbi Dei for almost as long as Gwynedd had been a kingdom. Kings and dynasties rose and fell, the Gabrilites, Michaelines and even Custodes had had their days in power but through it all the Ordo Verbi Dei had remained.

Donal could feel that power, quiescent for now, beyond the priory gates as Urien led the royal party past them and into the army that spread across the fields and pastures that fed the monks.

The monks would face a lean harvest this year, perhaps needing support of their brother communities across the Kingdom, for armies were not by their nature kind to the lands they rested upon.

“It seems that Kyprian’s vigour might have deserted him,” Urien observed, “I thought we’d little chance of reaching Braham’s army before the Torenthi arrived.”

“A small group on horses move far faster than a whole army, Sire.” Donal glanced around him. “It’ll be several days before Duke Tresham has all the eastern armies concentrated here and we’ve still no news of when Cinhil will arrive with his army.”

The King nodded calmly. “Still, when we left it seemed possible that the Earl would have been driven back to the river before we reached him. And those are northern banners I see, so the men of Marley have arrived and Kheldour too.”

With the royal banner flying, their arrival was no surprise and not only were the three Earls, accompanied by the younger brother to the unfortunate Earl Ivaar, Kennet Howell, ready to receive the king but cheering men lined a path through to the centre. They shouted homages to Urien as he rode past and the Haldane slowed his horse to wave his hand to men who had until now probably never laid eyes on the king whose throne they fought to save.

Swords clattered on shields while spears and bows waved wildly in the air as the little party moved through them, the shouting and the sound of metal blades on wooden shields making it almost impossible to hear men speak.

Reaching the centre of the camp, Urien looked around and gestured for Donal and those with him to dismount, though he himself remained in the saddle, raising both hands above his head, which remained lowered until after long moments, something resembling peace settled upon them.

“I have never sought war for Gwynedd,” he declared, raising his voice. “Only that you and your families live in peace and prosperity as God desires for all his children. But there are men of evil ambition who have broken the peace in the name of their avarice. And thus there are men such as you, men who train to arms and war to drive back these evils.”

“Sons of Gwynedd, men of fierce Eastmarch and loyal Marley, men of the mountains of Rhendall and coasts of Claibourne! If there is sorrow that we must come together to wage war then there is also pride in my heard that so many worthy men stand ready to defend Gwynedd. I am told that Kyprian of Torenth, and his son, who slew Earl Ivaar, march upon us from the East.”

Earl Braham raised his voice. “Aye, King Urien. His vanguard is only miles hence and tomorrow he shall be upon us.”

Urien nodded. “My thanks. He will come then. And I shall be here with you. But tomorrow shall not be the day that we halt him.”

“No!” He raised his voice over the tumult. “That day will come soon. But to us, you who will stand with me tomorrow, is given a sterner charge.”

“Even now armies are marching eastwards for that great day. Duke Tresham, my faithful Earl Marshal, has called armies forth from Valoret, from the Lendours and from the south together. In the west, my son Cinhil has defeated the Mearans and his army races towards us. Together, they and we shall have victory.”

“But that day cannot be tomorrow. Our victory tomorrow is one of time. Kyprian will be forced to pay for his progress – not in blood, though that shall be shed I do not doubt, but in time. When we give ground, this hallowed ground, it will not be in fear – for I look around me and I see you have none of that baseness. It shall be in victory. For while we stand together in his path, he will be slowed and the strength of Gwynedd builds behind us until at the last we drive him from our land once and for all!”

Donal didn’t think he was the first to raise the cry: “A Haldane!” but he shouted it as eagerly as any. There was a magic to kingship he and Anscom could never have given to Urien, but it was to Gwynedd’s great benefit that the King had never lacked it.

Urien dismounted and clasped hands with each of the Earls in turn, then clasping Kennet Howell’s hand as he did the same for him.

“It won’t take long for King Kyprian to learn what you said,” Becan Marley warned in a low voice.

“He needs to gather his forces too.” Urien similarly kept his voice down. “Near a third of his army is still east of the Lendours and he hasn’t much of a supply train with him. Geoffrey’s father tells me it’s likely he’ll only commit his vanguard against us tomorrow.”

Kennet rubbed his chin. “That will still be a strong force. More than our number and for the most part mounted.”

“A retreat won’t be a problem.” Braham studied the horizon. “But keeping it slow and steady could be. If Kyprian sends out light horse at our flanks he might well cut us off from the river and if that happens even the best men will be tempted to rout.”

“It’s your army, Earl Braham. I can’t claim to have great experience as a general. What do you suggest as a solution.”

“Well we’ll not match him for cavalry…”

A younger man in the same livery as Braham cleared his throat. “Your pardon, father, but didn’t you always say that the best guard against cavalry was a solid line of infantry.”

“As long as the flanks are anchored, yes.” The earl looked around. “It’s not so hard in mountains like those of my lands but we don’t seem to have any convenient terrain here, particularly if we have to march as we go.”

“What I had in mind was, what if we have four lines, each anchoring the other’s flanks.” The young man hesitated and then took his sword and sketched a rough square in the dirt. “You see? Four lines, each facing outwards. If anyone tries to turn the flanks they just run into another line.”

Kennet nodded. “I see it, good thinking, Sir Gillis. If we use the space between them to hold our supplies then they’ll be safe… perhaps some of our horses too, although that might leave us little room.”

“I think for the most part our horsemen will be needed as scouts.” Braham chewed his lip and then thumped his son’s shoulder proudly. “Yes, it’s a good chance. Archers and supplies on the inside, we’ll have to dismount most of our knights to reinforce the corners – those will be vulnerable points. But this will at least keep our flanks closed and that’s the biggest risk of sparking a route.”

“And what if Kyrian decides to break the formation? A charge of knights could smash the line…”

“Not if the line holds true, Earl Becan. Not if the line is solid. Horses have more sense than to throw themselves onto a spear. And my men won’t break, not with the King watching. Not after what he said today.”

Kennet tapped his chin. “He’d have to bring forwards infantry to try to grind us down. And since his majesty has given us full permission to make a steady retreat, they’ll be wearing themselves out not just trying to fight our men, but also to do so while we’re walking slowly away from them.”

“It’ll be demanding on the discipline,” conceded Braham. “But that’s the beauty of letting Kyprian’s light cavalry – Moors probably,” he added with a shudder, “- move around the flanks. Even the biggest fool in the army will realise he can’t hope to get away alone so the only hope is to stay together.”

.o0o.

“Well this brings back memories.” Nikola screened his eyes with one hand as he looked at the army deployed to face them.

“And not a blessed one of them is a good memory.” Arkady knew that his brother, like himself, was thinking back to the fir-clad and almost impenetrable mountains of the north. These riverlands were almost as far from such a vista as the southern deserts but the formation of men that faced them was almost exactly the same as the sort of shield wall they’d faced scores of times in long and painstaking campaigns. “I wonder if it’s a coincidence or if someone crossed the northern sea and took service with the Haldanes.”

“It could go either way, but I saw Byzantyun footsoldiers doing much the same so it’s hardly a tactic unique to the north.” Nikola glanced around. “Think they left their rear unguarded?”

“If so then they’ll regret it. Suleiman and five hundred of his brother Moors are out there and you know their view on Christians offering to surrender.”

Nikola raised his voice in conscious register of the accents of the southern deserts. “’Surrender, my lord? I’m just a poor but honest Moor, what do I know of these Christian ways?’”

“It’s not funny, Nikola. They do know better but father refuses to rein them in.”

“They’re like the rest of us. Offering for quarter up the north was asking for a knife in the back – or any of the other horrors they reserved for their captives.” His brother raised one gauntleted hand. “I know, I know. We’re not in the north any more but habits are hard to break. And if father isn’t pushing them to show more restraint it’s not as if he’s chiding you for doing so.”

Arkady nodded. “Thank you for the reminder. Speaking of which, is that banner near the middle the one I think it is?”

Nikola shaded his eyes again. “Hard to be sure with the wind so low but…”

As if in response to his words a gust of wind swept across the Gwynedd army and for a moment all the banners streamed out as plain as day.

“If you thought you’d seen the Haldane lion, gold on a crimson field, then I’d have to agree. And I don’t see any differences on the heraldry to mark a son or brother.”

The two princes exchanged looks. “Unless they’ve made some grievous error in their deployment, I’ll need a herald.” Arkady beckoned to one of his aides. “We have to maintain the courtesies after all, and there’s no use trying to crack that without a good number of our heavy foot.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some catapults too. Do you think father would mind waiting a day or two to bring up the field engines?”

“I tell you what, Nikola. You go and ask him. I should be able to hear his opinion from here, it’s only a couple of miles.”

.o0o.

The herald returned with the words of King Urien well before a suitable number of infantry companies had been brought forward.

“The Haldane is happy to speak with you, Your Highness, but as the stated purpose of your presence here is to overthrow his House and replace him with, to use his words, an usurper, he’s disinclined to come forward and meet within reach of your bows. He suggests that if you’re willing to advance as boldly as your armies have so far that he’ll meet with you and no more than two aides at a distance of no more than two hundred yards from his own position.”

Nikola shook his head. “That’s a goodly distance for a bow but not an impossible one. All it would take would be one fine archer in their ranks, brother…”

“To make you heir apparent in my place?” Arkady shook his head at the thought. “Only a fool would think that doing so would improve his position.”

“We don’t know for sure that the Haldane isn’t a fool, when it comes to war at any rate.”

Arkady looked at the herald. “What do you make of him? Is he a fool, or at least unversed in warfare?”

The herald shook his head. “I can’t speak for his competence as a commander, Your Highness, but the Haldane greeted me chivalrously and seemed very much in command of both himself and of his men. My sense is that he knows he cannot hold the position long against our greater number and would be pleased if he could make us spend time talking to him rather than in battle.”

“That hardly signifies now, we’re going to need that time anyway.” The prince looked at Nikola. “If he thinks that killing me will lead to an immediate attack, he’s unlikely to try anything. And the chance to get a feel for him now could make all the difference later once father takes the lead.”

“At least let me go in your place,” offered Nikola proposed. “Losing you might not endanger the succession but it would demoralise our forces and I’d not wish to be the one explaining to father why you got stuck with an arrow – or struck down by magic if the tales of Haldane magic are true.”

“I’m sure the men would follow you as readily as they do me. You’ve always been the one of us looked on most kindly.”

“It takes more than being liked to lead well. Our brother Zimri put it best I think when he said that our soldiers might follow me into hell but that with you in the lead they would be led back out of Hell in triumph.”

Arkady’s cheeks pinked. “Zimri had a bad case of hero worship at the time. I only hope he’s grown out of it by now.” He looked to the west again. “Besides if I’m out there he may assume that there’s no one of rank in charge here to be moving the troops up and preparing an assault.”

“If that’s the case, dear brother, then he won’t have reason to think that any treachery will be met with an immediate and punishing assault, so by that logic…”

The elder of the two princes threw up his hands. “Oh have it your own way, Nikola. But understand that if anything goes wrong out there then there will be an immediate attack, whether the rest of our companies are in position or not. And I’ll be in the front rank.”

“I’ll try not to do anything reckless then.”


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

 _The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance._  
2 Peter 3:9

“I beg your pardon but this might not be the wisest decision in your long reign, Sire,” Donal suggested as he and the King rode forward to meet the three Torenthi officers.

The young Earl frowned at Donal’s presumption in questioning the decision. Kennet Howell had asked that he be the third but with the possibility of his temper boiling over when faced by one of the men responsible for his brother’s death, Urien had instead named Geoffrey MacEwan as his other companion.

Donal was doing double-duty as both the King’s aide and also carrying the Haldane banner. Of course, he also had a third responsibility that couldn’t be shared with the Earl of Kheldour: for all Urien’s initiation it remained possible that he might miss some subtle sorcery on the part of the enemy prince and his officers.

“I’ve made a remarkable number of decisions over those years, Sir Donal, logically only one of them can be the wisest of them so that isn’t a very strong argument against my doing this.”

“I have my own doubts, Sire.” Geoffrey observed once it was clear that royal anger wasn’t roused by the sentiment. “It’s not as if Prince Arkady is coming himself.”

“It’s their good fortune to have a pair of Furstán on hand, whereas I’m the only Haldane present.” Urien reined his horse around and looked back. “I would say this is about two hundred yards, wouldn’t you agree?”

With the bulk of the banner to manage, Donal yielded to the Earl to make assessment and upon his agreement the three of them stopped to wait for the Torenthi, who had a little further to ride.

Save for the light hair, the prince in the lead reminded Donal to a degree of Prince Cinhil – in his physical prime and with a confident seat on his horse. He had an air of command to him. But Cinhil, though excellently trained to arms, didn’t wear his armour with the same familiarity that this prince did. There at a glance was the gap between Torenth and Gwynedd’s armies.

“Lord Urien Haldane.” The prince bowed in the saddle.

“Sir, you address the King!” snapped Geoffrey.

“Sir,” the Torenthi replied, “It is the view of my lord and father that the rightful king of Gwynedd is his nephew Marek of the House Festil-Furstán. I would hardly expect you to agree on this point, of course, but it is one I must keep in mind.”

“It will suffice, I believe, Lord Nikola Furstán; if we address each other as Lords of ancient and noble houses.” Urien fixed him with an icy stare, gesturing Geoffrey to silence. “The other matter is one that clearly has become one that will have to be addressed by the great God, Lord of Battles. You are, I believe, King Kyprian’s second son, the Duke of Arkadia?”

“I have that privilege, besides which I am second in command after my dear brother Prince Arkady of the vanguard of our army.”

“And do you speak for your brother now?”

“In certain matters I do. You understand that if you were, for example, to wish to raise the prospect of marrying your sons to any of his daughters then I’d have to refer the matter to him and also to our father. I doubt that the circumstance will arise.”

“It would be a more pleasant topic to address but you are correct. So then, Lord Nikola, it is your brother’s herald who requested this meeting. What then, does your brother wish to have you discuss with me?”

“Lord Urien, I would hope that it is evident that we have an army more than sufficient to drive you back and the only questions a battle would settle is how long it would take us and how many of both of our armies will perish before that is done. I would hope that at least the latter point weighs as heavily on your shoulders as it does as my brother’s.”

“If your brother wishes to spare his men casualties then I’d suggest all he need do is march his men back across the Rheljans. I will be glad to offer him safe conduct, for I have heard that he – unlike others among King Kyprian’s soldiers – has conducted himself as a Christian price despite the exigencies of war.”

“Alas, as dutiful sons, neither myself nor Prince Arkady is free to return to our homes while our King is at war. I’m glad though to hear that you hold Arkady in such esteem and assure you that he deeply regrets that others have not been able to enforce civilised standards upon their men. I have his pledge however, that any of the nobility of Gwynedd who surrender themselves to him shall have his protection whether it is to pledge themselves to Marek Festil-Furstán or simply to accept honourable captivity. In the first case, their men will be presumed to serve under them and in the second, though they must give up their arms and armour they won’t otherwise be molested and may return to their homes if they pledge to take no further part in this war.”

Geoffrey scowled thunderously. “Aye, and you’d put trust in us after we’d abandoned our oaths to King Urien? D’you take me for a fool?”

“I address the offer,” Nikola replied coolly, “to your King that he may absolve you of your oaths and in so doing spare your lives and end not only this battle but also this war without further deaths.”

“If I may enquire, Lord Furstán, what fate would your brother see for King Urien if he accepts this offer?”

Nikola turned his eyes on Donal and the Deryni felt a subtle pressure against his shields. There was a flicker of recognition in those dark eyes and he spread his hands. “Lord Haldane may seek to ride west, leaving his men to their fate, though with our cavalry so well advanced I would not expect him to reach any haven before he is caught. Or if he surrenders, forswears his crown and casts himself upon my brother’s mercy then he may live out his life in peace as a lay brother in a monastery of our choosing.” He paused, looking to the king. “Or if captivity is something you cannot stomach, Lord Haldane then perhaps one of your men will offer you the final escape.”

“I trust you will not think the less of me,” Urien replied, “If I do not take disgrace myself to seek escape in flight or that last course of action. Nor shall I resign my crown save to an heir of my house.” He studied Nikola and added: “Perhaps if you and your brother wish to avoid bloodshed among our armies, we could settle this matter in personal combat. You and your brother to face myself and one companion; with the losers’ soldiers to withdraw in full honour from the war, retaining their arms, armour and banners.”

Nikola started and then he bowed deeply with genuine respect to Urien. “My lord Haldane, you are fully worthy of my respect and I think my brother would look favourably on such a proposal. Alas, I cannot think that King Kyprian would approve of so many thousands quitting his campaign when the prize to be won was the retreat of your own much smaller force.”

Urien lowered his head. “A shame. Please convey to your father that I would be happy to face him on similar terms if he wishes to act on his well-known feelings towards my House. In the meantime, it seems that the only way this will be settled is in battle”

.o0o.

The sun was sinking low behind the Gwynedd army as Arkady watched them take another step back, their captains pushing at the handful who weren’t in line with their peers.

“We could push once more before it gets too dark,” he mused out loud.

Nikola shook his head and then winced. He’d taken a heavy blow to his helm in the first attempt to force the Gwynedd lines to break and Arkady had thought for a dreadful moment that his brother was going to be one of the casualties lying in a long, blood-stained trail from where the army had first formed back more than a mile towards the river.

Fortunately he’d only been knocked senseless and his squire had had the presence of mind to drag him back. Arkady had knighted the lad on the spot for his valour. If saving the life of a Prince of Torenth didn’t merit that then what else could?

“Be serious, Arkady. Even if they do break now, we can’t mount a pursuit through the night. Most of them would get away.”

“They’re all going to get away as things stand.” They’d withstood three attacks so far, each time bled a little more but at a cost of scores of his own men dead and others wounded. The last had looked promising at one point when a wedge of knights had driven into square beside Urien’s banner and threatened to cut that whole corner off, but a reserve of Rhendall men had swarmed over the knights and restored the line. When the square fell back again the bodies of the knights had been left behind along with more than their number of men in Rhendall colours.

His brother shrugged. “We were sent to push them back so father could assemble the army to rest here. No one expects us to win the war today. “As it is, they’ve lost a third of their number and yielded the field. Ask any of your captains and they’ll agree that this is your victory.”

Arkady removed his helmet and pushed back the mail coif that he wore beneath it. The cool wind that had arisen from the west as the afternoon dragged on was welcome against his scalp but it also carried to him the scents and sounds of the wounded lying, for the most part, where they had fallen.”

“I’m almost tempted to have Suleiman have his horse-archers harry them until the light fails,” he growled. “How many good men have they cost us today? No, no, don’t tell me. And yes, it would be pointless now. However many of them Suleiman killed and wounded, their own archers would do as much in return.”

“So what will you do?”

Arkady gestured towards one of the cluster of aides assembled to carry his instructions around the battle. “You,” he selected one of them. “Take word to Suleiman that he’s to pull his men back to camp. Tell him… tell him they’ve fought well.”

“Árpád, see if you can find the white flag we used earlier, then ride forward as my herald. Offer King Urien my respects and if he agrees not to harass our men aiding the wounded then I’ll let him withdraw with no further pursuit until morning.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The captain looked down at the field. “And their own wounded?”

The prince shook his head. “I’ll not let them rejoin his armies but we’ll give them such medicine and food as we can supply. Those who can’t fight again and aren’t worth a ransom will be allowed to go but that’s all I can offer.”

“They do not lack the will to fight, the men of Gwynedd,” Árpád observed as he turned his horse to go. “And they have more discipline than the northmen.”

“They also learn entirely too quickly.” Nikola moved his horse closer to Arkady. “Earl Ivaar let us goad him into taking a foolish risk but whoever’s leading the Eastmarch men there has them under tight control.”

“Let’s hope they don’t keep learning so fast.” Arkady began to unbuckle his gauntlets. “Although I’ve come to agree with father on one thing at least.”

“Oh?”

“If Marek was us to push towards Valoret then he’d better get his army here. It’s his throne we’re fighting for, so let him do some of the bleeding.”

.o0o.

The village of Schilling had been entirely surrounded by the camps housing Duke Tresham’s army by the time Piran got his first look at it. Earl Godwyn’s column, made up of the bulk of Cinhil’s knights and mounted men-at-arms had made swift progress across the Kingdom, overtaken only by a handful of messengers who had the advantage of fresh horses at regular intervals.

“I wonder what happened to the villagers.” Prince Jaron was looking around in curiosity as one of the Duke’s officers guided Earl Godwyn and his senior officers, which somehow still included Piran, towards the handful of stone and timber buildings.

“The young men might have taken up a spear instead of a plough.” Piran didn’t think it would be prudent to mention what the younger women of the village might be doing in the camp. “Most of them have probably gone to the next village until we’ve moved on. Their lord should look after them, but they’d be giving up their homes to the King’s officers anyway and I can’t imagine this is doing their fields any good.”

“That makes sense.” Then Jaron brightened and waved one hand. “Malcolm! Malcolm, you’re here!”

Prince Malcolm was indeed emerging from one of the few two-storey buildings in the village, probably an inn of some kind. He started at the cry and then returned the wave, stepping forward and taking the reins of his brother’s horse. “Welcome to Schilling, Jaron. If you’re here, I hope Cinhil’s party isn’t far behind.”

“He should be a day or two behind us, with Duke Tambert and the bulk of our infantry a day behind them.”

Jaron nodded. “He’s been marching them hard. You remember our cousin Godwyn, of course, and this is Sir Piran, one of his captains.”

Malcolm nodded in acknowledgement as Piran ducked his head. “Of course. You were mentioned when we received word of Culdi being retaken. And you were with Cinhil at the Cleyde, Earl Godwyn.”

The Earl nodded and dismounted. “I should report to the Earl-Marshal, Your Highness. Can I trouble you for directions to his headquarters?”

The prince gestured towards the building he’d just left. “You’ve found it. Could you spare Jaron while you’re informing him of your arrival? Father will want to see him.”

The Earl nodded. “Of course. And please convey my respects too.”

The two Haldanes stepped aside and Piran hastily secured the reins of his horse and the Earl’s before following Godwyn into the inn.

Even with all the windows open and candles, the main room wasn’t well lit. The Duke sat at one of the tables, a cleric Piran didn’t recognise beside him and scribbling notes. Only when Tresham turned his head were the new lines on his face visible.

“Your Highness, I’ve just arrived with a thousand lancers from Prince Cinhil’s army.”

Tresham nodded. “So I’ve been told, Earl Godwyn. Did you receive my instructions regarding setting up camp downstream of the ford?”

“Yes sir. Some of my captains are there now, organising horselines. We’ve very little in the way of supplies though. Most of the supply wagons are with Duke Tambert.”

“The prince sent word ahead that that was the case. As long as you can manage to feed your men tonight, more wagons are due tomorrow. There’s plenty of grazing for your horses – enough for the next few days at least. Make sure to water them upstream of the ford though.”

“Yes sir.”

“Did the prince send any further instructions for you to pass on?”

Godwyn shook his head. “Nothing specific, Your Highness. He was expecting to arrive late tomorrow or early the next day with the rest of the cavalry and the Lord Keene’s army. Duke Tambert and the Cassan levies are taking the road further north to avoid clogging the roads but he should only be a day behind the Prince.”

“Thank you, Earl Godwyn.” Tresham looked around, seemingly lost for moment. “Ah, Baron Danoc!”

The Baron stepped away from where he’d been working at another table. Like Tresham, Sir Gillis Gillespie appeared to have aged years in the last few months. “Your Highness.”

“The Earl of Carthane finally arrived with the Haldane lancers.” The duke turned back to the Earl. “Until Prince Cinhil arrives, Baron Danoc is leading the centre division. I’m aware it’s unusual to ask an Earl to take orders from a Baron but this is the prince’s decision. You’re to treat any orders from the baron as if they came from Cinhil himself. I trust there won’t be any problem with that.”

Godwyn put his arms behind his back. “I understand, my lord. Please don’t concern yourself. I’m glad to be placed under the guidance of the Baron. His instruction when I was at Rhemuth and Candor Rhea was of great assistance on campaign in the west.”

Baron Gillis offered the Earl his hand. “For my part it’s an honour to be part of the same division as a proven commander like yourself, Earl Godwyn. Why don’t you and Sir Piran join me at my table so I can brief you on the situation.”

Discreetly Godwyn waited until they were at the table and Duke Tresham was engrossed in a conversation with his own officers before asking quietly: “Is Duke Tresham well? He seemed… distracted.”

“He isn’t only commanding the whole army until Prince Cinhil arrives,” Gillis replied quietly. “He’s also handling the Division of the Right, since Earl Braham fell at the Battle of Saint Piran’s and Braham’s son is no older or more experienced than the Earl of Marley.”

“Can’t Earl Geoffrey carry that burden for him?” Piran looked around the room, trying to locate the Duke’s son. “His sons have been leading the Claibourne levies until now haven’t they?”

“Hopefully he’ll feel able to hand over the Division to Lord Keene when he arrives.” Gillis gestured upwards. “Poor Geoffrey lost his arm in the same battle that killed Braham and the wound’s become infected. No one wants to say anything to the Duke, but his chances aren’t considered good.”

“It must have been a hard fought battle.” Piran shook his head. “But then they’ve all been taking their toll. Earl Ivaar, Earl Richard, Earl Mael and now Earl Braham and perhaps Earl Geoffrey as well. And that’s just the Earls.”

“Earl Mael?” asked Gillis in surprise. “The Earl of Transha fell as well? I’d heard of Earl Richard leading his last charge, but not that the MacArdry was dead. He was only a young man.”

“Arrows are no respecters of age it seems.”

The Baron nodded. “It was a Moorish arrow that slew poor Braham. He had his visor up to give orders, it’s said and one caught him in the eye. At least it was quick.”

The three of them crossed themselves, as did the monk serving as Gillis’ clerk.

“Thankfully after the King and Earl Marley fell back –“

“Wait, King Urien was at the battle!” cried out Godwyn. “Prince Malcolm felt his brother should see the King but I didn’t think that… Pray tell me the King’s wounds are not serious.”

The Baron reached over and took Godwyn’s shoulder. “Peace, peace. It isn’t what you fear.”

Piran leant forwards. “Sir, I’m sure the Duke of Claiborne or Sir Gillis would have told us before now if the King’s life was in danger.”

“You have my word.” Gillis released Godwyn’s shoulder. “The King took no wounds of consequences and his health remains good. Whatever Prince Malcolm felt his brother should go to their father for, Urien is not on his deathbed. Pray do not spread alarm amongst by speaking recklessly, rumours spread easily among the camp.”

Godwyn’s face was almost as crimson as his cloak. “Your pardon, Sir Gillis. I let my fears get the better of me.”

The Baron nodded. “Consider yourself forgiven, if concern for King Urien could even be considered a fault. As I was saying, the Torenthi have made no further advance since the battle. The Prior has apparently persuaded King Kyprian that his Order pose no threat for the priory remains unmolested but a handful of the younger monks have been able to pass messages to our scouts and it seems that while the main force of their army is assembled, numbering between six and seven thousand strong, they are waiting the arrival of a powerful column from the south under the lead of the Pretender.”

“Can we match those numbers?” asked Piran cautiously.

“Duke Tresham’s Division of the Right has two thousand men of the northern levies and Earl Euan’s Division of the Left has perhaps a thousand reliable men from the Lendour Highlands and I think twice so many assembled by the Church, though I can’t speak for their arms and training. Your arrival brings the centre Division to about the same strength – besides your lancers I have most of the footmen from around Rhemuth and Valoret.”

“We’re closely matched in numbers to Kyprian’s army then.”

“Yes, and we hold a good position. If Prince Cinhil and Duke Tambert arrive before Kyprian’s reinforcements then our prospects are good but if his southern column is the first to arrive then he may decide to move while he has us outnumbered.”

“Would he risk crossing the Falling Water?” Godwyn shook his head. “The Mearans could barely push past Bishop Jashan’s army when they crossed the Cleyde and they outnumbered him by two to one.”

“That’s hard to say,” Gillis admitted. “My experience of the Mearans suggest that they’re more accustomed to border skirmishes than to a pitched battle such as that on the Cleyde. King Kyprian’s army has been fighting for years so he might feel that they can force the Schilling ford, which is quite broad. Equally, he could leave a guard to stall us if we try to cross and then move north towards Grecotha or south to find another crossing from which he could threaten Valoret.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

The Baron picked up a mug of ale and shook it lightly, looking at the ale within as it swirled. “No, Godwyn,” he said in a low voice. “Kyrian’s objective must be to crush this army. While we resist him, whether he and the Pretender hold Valoret or even Rhemuth, he cannot claim victory. I believe he will strike for us directly.”

“And I believe it will take every man we can muster if we are to stop him.”

.o0o.

Notwithstanding his earlier angry words, Kyprian greeted Marek with the kiss of friendship and seated him at his right hand. The pavilion now held a long table requisitioned from the monks at Saint Piran’s and as generals and captains took their own seats along the length of it, the Deryni amongst them conjured handfire and set them to glow above their heads to provide illumination without the smoke that candles or torches would have produced.

Arkady made room for his brother alongside him. Below the table, Nikola placed his hand upon Arkady’s so that they could communicate discreetly.

*Who’s that sitting next to Marek’s sons?* he asked quietly.

Arkady looked down the table and saw the older man leaning over to murmur advice to Prince Festil. *Maurin Makrory, the new Count of Kulnán. He was one of Duke Imre’s knights before Donan’s brothers were sent into exile.*

*He’s done well out of his loyalty to the Festils then.*

Arkady restrained a snort. *I doubt even Donan knew Sir Blaine was a spy. His brothers certainly didn’t. Still, if Imre hadn’t spoken up for Maurin the Makrory’s could have seen their titles attainted to the crown so perhaps you’re right.*

“Now that all our forces are assembled, dear uncle, may we discuss a further advance upon the Haldane host.” Marek’s sleek blond hair was combed back and held in place by a gold circlet, his court tunic one that wouldn’t have been out of place in Beldour. Arkady reminded himself not to under-estimate his cousin. For all he’d been slow to move his column north, trustworthy knights confirmed that Marek had been at their head storming Rengarth and the sword he’d set aside before sitting had been no ornamental courtier’s blade but stout steel.

Kyprian gave Marek a sour look. “Indeed, nephew. Since Urien was defeated here he’s fallen back beyond the river and assembled a more credible army than the small force we’ve seen so far. Certain sources of information indicate he’s gathered some seven or eight thousand men under the command of his Earl Marshal, although one wing of the army is largely made up of ill-equipped peasants that could be discounted save for their number.”

“We have ten thousand men assembled, for the most part seasoned veterans.” Imre of Tolan folded his arms. “If Urien thinks he’s safe behind the river then his complacency betrays him. We should strike for him directly.”

“Nonetheless, fording the river would allow him to stand on the defensive.” Arkady looked at the map. “While we have the advantage of numbers and discipline, on a narrow front we might not be able to bring the first of those to bear and thus he could use his best troops for the most part. A hard march towards Valoret would likely let us reach a crossing he can’t defend in force before we’re across and with our army between him and the heartlands of Gwynedd he would have little choice but to attack on whatever ground we chose.”

Marek favoured him with a confident smile. “Your strategy would make sense, cousin. However, you do not have all of the facts yet. Urien’s heir has a second, smaller army marching from the west. If we do as you propose then we could find ourselves attacked from front and rear.”

“Not only would Cinhil’s arrival reduce our advantage in numbers, he’s Urien’s only victorious general. The King himself is no general or he wouldn’t have placed his Earl Marshal in command while he serves as little more than a figurehead.”

Kyprian nodded at Imre’s words. “Tresham MacEwan is untested at war.”

“Not only that.” Marek bowed slightly to Arkady and Nikola. “His son Geoffrey was wounded in battle by your forces and now lies dying. Our sources suggest the Duke is at least somewhat distracted. By moving swiftly we can strike the Haldanes while their leaders are not at their best. I am sure you see the merits of doing so.”

“The merits of a swift strike are not lost upon me, cousin.” Arkady gave the would-be King a pointed look. “Are your men ready for such an attack?”

Marek’s eyes darkened at the subtle slur. “They are, cousin. And if it pleases the King of Torenth then I beg the boon of leading the vanguard. Duke Ygor and Count Max-Echehardt have discussed this matter with me and we are convinced that we can march our men to the river tonight, allowing us to storm the ford at dawn. Your own scouts show the ford is wide and shallow and with surprise as our ally we can be across and upon the Haldane’s camp before they fully grasp the situation.”

“You seem to assume he has no scouts of his own.”

“I’m sure that he does, Prince Nikola.” Imre shook his head. “But mortal scouts see little at night and even less when the moon is hidden behind clouds?”

“I doubt you mean to leave that chance – are you proposing a weather working?”

Imre nodded. “A small one, if you will permit it, King Kyprian. Indeed, if Prince Nikola would like to indulge his curiosity then he could join myself and Count Maurin in the working.”

Smiling in approval, Arkady’s father nodded to Imre before turning to Marek. “I am pleased to grant your boon, nephew. Carry out the attack as you have discussed and the weight of our army will move at dawn to support you.”

“It will take some hours to move companies to the ford,” cautioned Kamien of Marluk. A cousin to the royal line, his southern duchy contributed heavily to the Moorish complement of the army. “My own men can march two hours before dawn.”

“That would be best.” Arkady looked along the table. “Count Maurin, you will be otherwise engaged…”

“My men can march though.” He looked to Duke Kamien. “May I entrust them to you, Your Highness?”

“It would be my honour to have the men of Kulnán fighting alongside me.”

Marek cleared his throat. “Thank you, Duke Kamien, for your support. There is one other matter I would like to make plain however.”

Arkady’s face tightened as Marek rose to his feet.

“I understand my cousin’s Christian duty to his kin by marriage.” The would-be King placed his gloves upon the table in symbolic challenge. Arkady’s wife Dura was sister to Prince Onan of Jaca, who was in turn wed to a Haldane princess. “But the Haldanes are usurpers, their line sprung of a renegade priest and their support for a church that would see fully half of us here burned as heretics for nothing more than our God-given gifts puts them beyond the pale. I cannot countenance that quarter be offered to Urien Haldane or any of his house.”

“The Haldane has been offered quarter already and rejected it,” Nikola answered on Arkady’s behalf. “Having spoken to him myself I assure you that he will accept no quarter and nor shall he offer it to the House of Festil.”

“Then we are in agreement. To end the suffering the Haldanes have brought to the Eleven Kingdoms, Urien Haldane and his sons must die.” Kyprian rose and those around the table did likewise. “They have rejected my son’s offer of mercy and no further offer will be made.”

Arkady and Marek nodded, one in concession and the other in gracious acknowledgement.

.o0o.

In the east, first traces of light were beginning to outline the Rheljans against the sky as Piran ducked his head in a bucket of water. The camp was quiet around him and what grass remained after the thousands of horses had grazed was wet with dew. Moments like this were few and far between among an army and Piran had found that while many of his fellow knights preferred companionable evenings sharing wine and seeing to their gear he was drawing away from them.

Perhaps it’s that I was not there at the Cleyde, he thought. I fought at Culdi but is there something of having followed Prince Cinhil into battle there that I do not share? Or is it some fault on my part?

The young knight scaled the simple fence that had been erected to provide the horses with an improvised paddock and found his own gelding, an unassuming roan, also awake and eyeing the river with what Piran took to be a thirsty eye.

“Come on boy, we’ll get you watered upstream,” he offered, snagging the gelding’s head and strapping the bridle in place.

The gate, no more than a length of rope secured to one fence post and with a loop hooked over the other side of a gap in the fence wasn’t far and once they were out of the paddock, Piran took a step back and then jumped up on the gelding’s back, pulling himself upright to ride bareback as he had as a boy. Saddles and other tack are for serious riding, his father had always said, but you can’t count yourself a real rider unless you can ride bareback.

A handful of sleepy sentries saluted as he rode past, circling Schilling and moving past the disorderly encampments of the ecclesiastical levies. Some of the men were already awake, for the most part gathered around a handful of priests who were leading them in the Dawn Prayer.

Piran crossed himself as he passed them and then nudged his horse down towards the water. He was about to dismount when the first hint of the sun rose above the distant mountains and he saw it glitter upon spearheads.

“What in the name of Jesu Christ is…”

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There could be no mistake. Spears, helms were catching the first light across on the far side of the Falling Water and they were moving in good order towards the Schilling ford.

“Sweet Jesu, we’re under attack.” He dragged hard on the bridle, bringing his horse around. There was no time to return to Earl Godwyn but at least some of the men in the nearest camp were awake.

“Alarm!” he cried out as he smacked his boots against the horse and the startled roan broke into a gallop up the shallow slope. “To arms, to arms! Rally to the ford!”

Startled heads turned as he burst into the ecclesiastical camp. “What was that you say!” exclaimed a lean priest, breaking off in mid-prayer.

“Torenthi soldiers are almost at the ford!” Piran shouted. “Arm yourselves for God’s sake!”

The man blinked and then scowled angrily, looking around. “Were the sentries asleep? No, there’s no time for that. Rouse your brethren, my children! Rouse your children and follow this good knight to do God’s work!”

The men were for the most part, Piran realised, little more than farmers and craftsmen by their garb and when they seized up weapons, their spears were a motley of hunting gear and farm implements improved on as each saw fit.

“I’ll send word to the Earl Marshal!” the priest added, pushing his fellow priests off in whatever direction seemed easiest as he could reach them. “Brothers, go! Rouse the levies and someone – you, in fact,” he seized one young priest, “Go alert the Earl of Lendour.”

“Yes, Your Excellency!” the young priest exclaimed and took to his heels.

Piran started at the grey-haired priest. “You’re a Bishop?”

“Yes! Now go!”

Chastened, Piran turned his horse, looking once more at the mob of men moving towards him. Realising that there was no point looking to impose more order he instead pointed down towards the ford. “Follow me!”


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

 _And he said, Hearken ye, all Judah, and ye inhabitants of Jerusalem, and thou king Jehoshapat, Thus saith the Lord unto you, Be not afraid nor dismayed by reason of this great multitude; for the battle is not yours, but God’s._  
2 Chronicles 20:15

Donal threw open the door to the king’s chambers and saw that none of the occupants were awake. Unceremoniously he dragged the covers off the house’s one bed and shook Prince Jaron by the shoulder.

“What? I’m awake!” The young squire rubbed his eyes and sat up. “What?” he asked again. “Sir Donal?”

“Get your father’s armour ready!” snapped Donal and reached over past the boy to swat Malcolm on the head. “You too, Prince Malcolm. The Torenthi are here.”

“Here?” exclaimed Jaron, wriggling out from below Donal. “But they’re -“

“Go!”

Urien sat up sharply, woken by the roar. “Sir Donal?” Without waiting for any further he reached up to the bed board and lifted the state sword from where he’d left it as he slept.

“King Kyprian stole a march on us, Sire. They hold the ford and if we’re not very quick they may reach the camp too.” Donal stepped back and saw that Jaron had taken the King’s arming tunic and had it ready. “Quickly, Sire.”

Throwing his legs off the bed, Urien took the bottom of the arming tunic and pulled it over his head. Fortunately he’d slept in shirt and breeches. Donal took the king’s feet and pushed riding boots onto them, then retrieved greaves and buckled them over the boots as Jaron wrestled a mail-shirt over his father’s head.

“This will have to do.” Urien stood and turned so Donal could tighten the buckles at the back. “Fetch my surcoat, Jaron.”

On the other side of the bed, Malcolm had pulled on his own arming tunic and snatched up the surcoat from the top of a chest. “I have it. Jaron, get dressed,” he instructed and pulled helped his father don the silk surcoat, the royal colours of Gwynedd bright despite the early hour.

Donal picked up his own mail from where he’d left it at the door and tried to wrestle it over his head hastily. Urien took hold of the armour and helped him don it. “Jaron, go to Duke Tresham, he’ll need all the help we can give him today.”

The boy seemed about to protest but had the sense to refrain when he saw the king’s expression. “Yes, father.” He handed Donal the sword-belt he was holding and left the chamber.

“Malcolm!”

Buckling a well-made leather brigantine around himself, the young prince looked to his father. “Sire?”

“Take my horse and ride west,” he ordered sharply. “Find Cinhil’s camp and tell him what’s happened. Duke Tresham might have sent a messenger but you’re from me, do you understand? Tell him…” Urien twisted the Ring of Fire from his finger. “Give him this, the Lion and the Eye of Rom. If things don’t go well, you know what to do.”

“Father? I…”

Urien pulled him into a brief embrace. “You can. It’s in your blood. Now go.”

“I wish we’d time for you to don better armour,” muttered Donal as he followed the King out of the chamber. The household knights who’d been asleep in the other room of the small house commandeered for Urien were also armoured, seizing weapons and filing out of the house. “At least take this.”

Accepting his helm, a golden coronet of lions secured around the crown, Urien joined the crowd of knights and once he was out of the house he donned it, stepping aside from the door as he secured it below his chin. “Gentlemen,” he ordered, waving at the knights around him. “This is no time for ceremony. Today Gwynedd needs our swords.”

“Raise the king’s banner!” called Donal.

“This isn’t my banner,” Urien corrected him and as the banner bearer removed the leather cover from the silk banner, the king seized the pole. “Or at least not mine alone. This is the banner of all Gwynedd!”

With a cheer the knights followed their King as he swung himself into the saddle with the energy of a man half his age. What they saw from the edge of Schilling was enough to chill their veins however.

The ford was clear of the living, but only because hundreds – thousands – of Torenthi men-at-arms had already crossed and were advancing up the slope. The shoreline was heaped with bodies – some wearing the same colours as the living men-at-arms but others in the drab of the peasant levies that the Archbishops had called up from the most faithful of their congregations.

Others in that drab still stood, interspersed with Lendour men and the Carthmoor levies in a thin line from the shore upstream to the front of the village, not far from where the knights had assembled. To the right another line was forming and Baron Danoc could be seen bringing his men to order.

“We’ll stand here,” Urien declared. He lowered his voice and looked at Donal. “I don’t see the Duke of Tresham’s division.”

“They’re probably still coming up.” Donal’s own eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the details. In the far distance another column of Torenthi could be seen approaching but it would be some time before they reached the ford. “I see the colours of Lorsöl, Jandrich… and Tolan.”

Urien raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, still low in the sky ahead of him. “Is this Marek himself?”

“I think it might be. See that band of knights behind their centre? The man at their head wears a surcoat quartering Tolan’s colours and Gwynedd’s.”

There was a clatter of hooves and the Duke of Claibourne moved up alongside the royal knights, followed by his own guards and Jaron, who hung back.

“Two, perhaps two and a half thousand,” Tresham grunted. “We have their number but there are more coming. Once Earl Godwyn has his men mounted we may be able to drive them back to the water.”

Donal nodded dubiously. Then he spotted movement just upstream of the ford, one of the bodies he’d thought dead rising unsteadily to his feet, a naked sword in one hand. “Oh Jesu, it’s Piran!”

“Sir Piran!?” exclaimed Jaron, moving forward to his side while Donal hastened to uncase his bow.

“He’s alone down there, he doesn’t stand a chance!”

Sure enough, he must have been spotted for the man who might be Marek pointed and four of his companions turned their horses towards where Piran stood.

Donal raised his bow and nocked an arrow although he knew it was hopeless. If the four knights were alone, perhaps, but Piran wasn’t even wearing armour.

There was a cry from the left and Donal turned his head to see a mounted man burst from the Lendour lines. A black cassock billowed where it wasn’t held in place by a jazeraint and the arming cap the rider wore had been painted episcopal purple. He was making directly for the shore and seemed not to care one whit that a block of Torenthi were in his path.

More shouts arose and the lines to the left seemed to break up as riders and men on foot followed the apparently crazed bishop. Then a trumpet sounded in unambiguous command and the entire line started to charge forwards.

“That’s torn it.” Tresham spurred his horse forward. “We have to support them now!”

Donal barely heard the Duke’s words. He released his arrow and was beginning to draw a second before the first had reached the head of the knight nearest to Piran.

The horse fell and the man riding it spilled forwards over the head onto the stones of the riverbank. Piran’s sword flashed and then he dropped to one knee, dragging the dead knight’s shield from his arm.

A second knight tumbled sideways out of his saddle as Donal’s next arrow caught him below the left shoulder, just behind his shield.

Piran took a blow from another knight on his purloined shield and darted forwards to confront the last of the four, stabbing the tip of his sword into the sensitive nose of the horse. The horse balked and Piran slashed the saddle strap, dismounting the knight.

The third knight had brought his horse around but Donal had loosed again and the arrow buried itself in the beast’s flank and it fell sideways, the knight having to throw himself into the water to avoid being crushed beneath his own steed.

Before the last knight could rise, Piran was upon him, smashing his shield into the man’s helm and then driving his sword down. It pierced the throat but then must have wedged itself for Piran jerked it once, then released the hilt and scrambled to retrieve the knight’s own fallen sword.

He was in time to parry the third knight’s sword and Donal turned his bow, a fourth arrow nocked as the bishop reached the Torenthi lines. The first man in the raging cleric’s path fell with the arrow through his throat and the bishop met the next with a horseman’s mace, bringing it down with impressive force on the man’s helm.

“By God, I don’t think I’ve seen an archer your equal,” exclaimed Tresham. He shook his reins and as Donal looked up he realised the Haldane footmen to the right were also now closing in. He thrust his bow hastily back into its case and unhooked his shield from the pommel of his saddle.

“Is there any way I can persuade you not to join the charge, Sire?”

Urien looked at the Duke and smiled slightly. “Tell me honestly you don’t need every sword right now.”

“Aye, if that fool bishop had just waited until Earl Godwyn or the Division o’ the Right had arrived.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on to Bishop MacArt.” Urien lowered his visor. “By your lead, Your Highness.”

Drawing his sword, Tresham raised it high and then swept it down towards the leading edge of the Torenthi advance.

With the slope slightly in their favour the band of armoured knights crashed into their counterparts among the enemy, heavy war horses crashing against each other and Gwynedd’s banner flying above them.

Somehow, in the first clash of arms Donal was swept away from Urien and Tresham. He ducked his head below a sweeping axe strike and blocked a weak lance thrust from a knight in Jandrich colours with his shield. Not wasting time trying to fight them he bulled his way forwards into a gap, pushing towards the banner and relying on the knights behind him to deal with the enemies.

He exchanged blows with a man-at-arms in Lorsöl colours. The Tolan knights seemed to have been hanging back with their lord but the cavalry of the other two contingents had become mingled in the melee.

With a savage blow that sent the other man reeling, sword dropping from an arm that might be broken, Donal pushed past and saw at last his king and Duke Tresham exchanging blows with a contingent of fully armoured knights under the banner of Jandrich.

Duke Tresham rose up in the saddle, shield broken or discarded, for he held his sword in both fists as he brought it down with deadly force against the man facing him, cleaving into the gap between gorget and breastplate.

Recovering his balance the Duke seemed about to press on but with a vengeful shout, the man at the centre of the knights threw out his hands and a blaze of crimson fire encompassed but the Duke and his steed for an instant.

Urien shouted out in anger as the doughty Duke’s horse fell and bore its rider to the ground. Donal was hardly less shocked that the rider had been so foolish as to resort to a blast of raw power. Unlike more refined spells, the conjuring would take its toll swiftly and as the remaining Claibourne knights saw their master fell they closed in on the Jandrich knights, axes and swords already dripping with blood.

The Deryni seemed to reel in his saddle and then flared his shields defiantly. “Haldane!” he screamed and a second bolt of power leapt forth.

Donal gasped the first syllables of a counterspell, knowing as he did so that he was too late and too far away, but Urien didn’t falter. His sword swept around and a crackling nimbus of power absorbed the spell. For a long and terrible moment Urien held that power steady, blade pointed directly at the spell’s caster and then the energies of the spell rolled back upon the same path and the man screamed briefly as he was blasted from his saddle.

For a brief instant there was a shocked silence as both sides wrestled to grasp what they had seen.

Spurring forwards to Urien’s side, Donal seized the banner pole, his hand over Urien’s. “God has sent his blessing down to guard the Haldane!” he cried out.

“A miracle!” a second voice proclaimed.

They pushed forwards with renewed energy and the Torenthi knights fell back, fighting knee-to-knee. The banner of Jandrich fell and Donal saw its bearer, tears pouring down his face, dragging the fallen body of the Deryni back behind the remaining knights.

Urien let the battle push forwards, sitting next to Donal with their two hands upon the banner pole.

“You did it, sire.”

“Did I?” He shook his head. “God, I had no idea what I was doing. It just… came to me. There was no time to think.”

“He struck first. If you hadn’t acted you’d have ended up like Duke Tresham.”

“Yes. Poor Tresham. First Geoffrey and now him.” A thought seemed to strike the king and he looked at Donal. “Where’s Jaron?”

“I…” Donal let go of the banner and looked around him. After a moment, he saw Jaron at the back of the lancers, stabbing a spear past one of the embattled Haldane knights into the side of a Torenthi man-at-arms. “He’s well, Sire. See there, to the right?”

Urien nodded and shook Donal’s hand gently off the banner. “Thank you, Sir Donal. Have him find Baron Danoc and tell him he’s in command now. And I want you to ride back and see what’s keeping the Division of the Right.”

.o0o.

“By Jesus, ‘tis a killing ford down there,” exclaimed Sean-Seamus as he and Vasco took their first look at the Schilling ford.

Horses splashed through the shallows, threading their way between fallen men as Haldane Lancers filed back across the river to form up around the royal banner not far from the water’s edge. Border archers shot volleys over the river, the shafts falling among lines of spearmen pressing upon what was clearly a shrinking perimeter on the eastern bank.

The river south of the ford was red with blood.

Only a few horse lengths behind them, Cinhil drew his sword with a slither of metal on metal as he took the scene in. “Archers forward!” he ordered sharply. “General MacEwan, hold the rest of your men back just out of arrow range of the far shore. I want you in reserve if the Torenthi try to force the ford.”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

Cinhil walked his horse forward, a few steps to clear his view. “Malcolm, go down and find out who’s in charge down there. Take Sir MacArdry with you.”

The highlander looked questioningly at Vasco who nodded. The short borderer had attached himself somehow to Vasco’s personage after the battle on the Cleyde but somehow didn’t seem to grasp that he was also subordinate to the prince – or ‘the young Haldane’ as Vasco had heard him style Cinhil.

“Vasco, how many Torenthi do you see on the other shore?”

He made a rough count of one of the bands and then of how many bands in the entire force. “Perhaps fifteen hundreds facing our right, I see the banners of Tolan and Lorsöl among them. To the left a thousand foot and behind them as many horse, with Arkadian colours and the banners of Furstán princes. The centre… I can’t tell clearly, sir, but not less than those on the left.”

“That sounds right to me. By God, we’ll be doing well to bring our men back across the ford safely.”

Vasco nodded grimly. “We couldn’t have got here sooner. Keene’s men are exhausted as it is.”

“I know. I know. But to still… I could have come ahead with Godwyn’s cavalry.”

“And that could have left you dead somewhere in that.” Vasco pointed down to the ford. “There’s no knowing what could have happened, my prince. And we’ll need the surgeons you arranged in Grecotha. In fact I think we’re going to need them very badly.”

Cinhil bared his teeth at the very thought of the Rector of Grecotha University, who'd banned students from leaving their studies to join the army. His claims that it was his responsibility to keep the young men from picking up bad habits or from backsliding hadn’t impressed anyone but with Bishop Jashan busy on the Mearan border there had been no one in a position to force him to let the men go.

A few score men probably wouldn’t make much difference on the battlefield but putting a surgeon’s kit in the hands of that many men with at least a year’s training as physicians was another matter and Prince Cinhil had given the Rector short shrift.

“The McLain brothers can secure the border well enough with Ardal MacArdry and his liegemen to support them. If I’d known, Uncle Jashan could have handled the University as well as I could. Better perhaps, he probably wouldn’t have ended up needing to threaten the Rector.”

“Oh I wouldn’t call what you said threatening, Your Highness. After all, if he’s so unworldly that he thought he could keep the students from following a real prince off to war when you were right there then he probably would have found being dragged all this way by his ankles a spiritual experience. Mortify the flesh to elevate the spirit, isn’t that what they say?”

“I doubt the surgeons would agree with that sentiment.”

Below lancers had finished crossing the river and a good number were continuing up the slope towards the camp. As they came closer Cinhil saw that most were wounded and the exceptions had wounded men riding pillion behind them.

“You’re right,” Cinhil added. “We need the surgeons.” He rode forward and Vasco’s heart swelled as the wounded men – men with every cause to be dispirited – instead raised a cheer as they saw the prince. “Where are you taking the wounded?”

“The Bishops’ camp.” One of the men in the fore pointed upstream. “The surgeons are there.”

“Sir Oliver, have our own surgeons report there.”

The named knight turned his horse and cantered back towards the supply wagons that had accompanied Cinhil’s column.

“Prince Malcolm has told me you were attacked at dawn. I need one of you to tell me what has happened since. The rest of you go on and take our wounded for treatment.”

One mailed knight, drying blood staining one side of his face and his sword arm secured in a crude sling fashioned from his surcoat, waved the others away. “The surgeons won’t have time for small hurts like mine. Not while others need them more.” He sidestepped his horse towards Cinhil to let those behind him pass. “Sir Theophilus Genlis, at your service.”

“Your house has served we Haldanes well already. You’re a cousin of Earl Zion, who died at Rengarth, are you not.”

“I am.” Sir Theophilus shook his head. “Alas, I am also cousin to his brother Maurice, but I have cleaned our house of that stain.”

“What stain is this?”

Theophilus bared his teeth. “He was among the knights of the Pretender, sire. Serving the same man who murdered his brother!”

“But no longer from what you say?”

“Not unless he can serve Marek without his treacherous head.” The knight slumped. “I cannot explain his choice, Your Highness, only swear that he is an aberration. His brother was true to the end or else Marek wouldn’t have killed him.”

“He accounts to a higher court now. But how went the battle otherwise? Who has command?”

“Baron Danoc commands, sir.” When Cinhil blinked, Theophilus added quickly: “By order of your father, after Duke Tresham fell.”

“Tresham is dead?” Cinhil glanced back towards the Claibourne men he’d brought with him and in particular to their leader, Duke Tresham’s younger son Keene.

“He is. It’s said a Deryni among the enemy struck him down with sorcery and that the King avenged him.”

“Loyal MacEwan. This war takes a toll. But the enemy have been beaten back.”

Theophilus nodded and grimaced. “The northern levies fought with great fury at news of the Duke. It turned the tide and the Pretender was forced back across the river. If it were not for the reinforcements that keep joining his lines we’d have broken them, Your Highness.”

“But clearly he does have reinforcements. Danoc has ordered you back?”

“I believe so. At least, Earl Godwyn ordered us to gather those wounded we could and bring them with us back across the river. I don’t believe he would have ordered that if it wasn’t the Baron’s command.”

“It was a wise choice.” Vasco looked across the river where blocks of Gwynedd soldiers had been pulled back to form a new line nearer the ford. “It’s hard for men to fall back and leave wounded to the mercy of the foe. Knowing they have been carried to safety will help there.”

The Torenthi surged against the Gwynedd line and it collapsed, men running back to join the new line or past it to cross the ford. Some cast away spears and shields to run faster, while others backed away grimly, facing towards the Torenthi.

A horn sounded and a gap opened in the Torenthi right. Their cavalry rushed through, cutting through the fleeing men. For a moment it seemed as if they would drive directly into the new line but there was a rattle of arrows through the air and landed among the leaders of the charge. Men and horses fell, those behind them having to turn aside or trample their own fallen.

“Good timing then. Gillis Gillespie knows what he’s doing.”

Before another charge could be mounted, the new line solidified and then steadily shortened as it backed towards the ford.

“I see Marley’s banner there. And those of Rheljan and Eastmarch.”

Vasco nodded. “Baron Danoc must be relying on their anger to hold them together as the other lords pull their forces out.”

“I think we may owe this day as much to that anger as to his cool head.” Cinhil nudged his horse forwards. “I’ll not confuse matters by taking over from him this late in the day but I can at least make a start on getting the men reorganised.”

.o0o.

The state crown of Meara hadn’t seemed so heavy when Roisian first wore it. Of course, she’d been wearing it for most of the day now.

“The lords aren’t used to the idea of their prince being a princess,” Urracca had warned that morning. “If you let them, they’ll run the country around you. The regalia will act as a reminder every time they see you.”

And so Roisian wore the crown, even though the weight was giving her a headache, and since her father’s sword hadn’t been recovered from the battlefield an ancient sceptre clearly modelled upon a rather functional mace lay on a cushion before her on the table. If the sword of the nigh-legendary Mear mac Quinnell was never recovered then the sceptre used by his great-great-grandson Janus was almost as valuable a symbol.

Of course, Janus had been the last prince to rule a united Meara, the power struggle between his son and brother having sundered the principality into Meara under Roisian’s ancestors and Cassan under their cousins. Roisian would have preferred the sword as a symbol if it could be reclaimed.

Reclaimed into her own hands, that was.

“I’m sensible of your courage in offering to act as my envoy to Bishop Jashan,” she answered Loren Kincaid. “But as the commander of our armies in the north, I cannot in good conscience risk that the Bishop may find some excuse to detain you.”

The Earl lowered his eyes. “My lady, I’m touched by your fears on my behalf but I feel it my duty to your father, who was almost a second father to myself, that his body be returned to lie beside his brother and his father here in Laas.”

“Knowing how keenly my father felt upon the subject of Cassan I have no doubts, my lord; that being laid to rest amongst his and my northern cousins would not disturb him. The time will come to return his bodily remains to Laas, but he would little thank us for treating with a Haldane at this hour.” Roisian looked down the table to where the chief of King Kyprian’s emissaries to Meara sat as a guest among the assembled lords of Meara. “Lord Zygmunt, I must enquire now of you, what news you have of your King’s armies in Gwynedd?”

Lord Zygmunt, a younger son of one of Furstán’s numerous cadet-branches, stood and bowed in courtly fashion. “Most gracious princess, my King and his generals, among whom is of course your betrothed, the noble Prince Nikola, Duke of Arkadia, were upon my last news triumphant upon the battlefield at the Priory of Saint Piran. Having bypassed the Lendour mountains, this places them to strike south upon the Haldane’s northern stronghold of Valoret.”

“A most favourable situation,” Roisian agreed. “It is no time, my lords, for us to turn aside from the alliance my father has forged with King Kyprian.”

“I am sure Kyprian would understand the importance of bring your father home, your highness.”

“Earl Kildaren, I assure you that it is my intention that a suitable officer be sent to Culdi to negotiate upon that point. But it seems to me that even should Urien Haldane suffer the loss of Valoret or even should he lose his own life that House Haldane will remain a trenchant foe and as an ally of Torenth I shall ask of you and of our well-respected Earl of Cloome –“

James Ramsay, now invested in his brother’s place, stirred at his own seat.

“- to command Mearan’s forces in the field in the months and years to come. That being the case it seems unwise to me that you be hazarded in this fashion. Instead I will instead ask that Bishop Briand send a suitable priest to act as our emissary. Bishop Jashan, being a churchman himself, shall respect the overture all the more for being carried by a man of the cloth. This will also underline that the embassy’s purpose only of seeing that our dead, both my father and those who died fighting for his cause alongside him, may lie at rest.”

“I would be honoured to act as your emissary myself.” Briand of Ratharkin, the Bishop of Meara, touched his pectoral cross and bowed his head.

Roisian smiled slightly. The rotund bishop was not often at court, spending much of the year riding a circuit of the cathedrals and major churches of his see. “Your Grace, I shall rely upon you.”

Lord Stuart cleared his throat. “Your Highness, may I propose now that we move on to discuss related military affairs. Following the sad losses in battle upon the Cleyde, many of the border clans are reporting that they lack the number of fighting men needed to suppress banditry in the highlands.”

Roisian saw the expression on Lord Zymunt’s face and had to fight to keep from flushing. Meara, far from being a powerful ally to the Torenthi now appeared to be unable to even maintain order within their own borders. “These would be the same border lords who objected to my father reinforcing our army with Connaiti mercenaries?” she asked coolly.

“That is largely correctly, your highness.”

“It’s likely that there has been an upswing in banditry in the north-west,” conceded Earl Loren grudgingly. “There are undoubtedly deserters from both armies trying to live off the land. And the Haldanes have left most of the border under the watch of their own Highland clans. It’s as likely as not that half these attacks are meant as payback by MacArdry and MacInnis lordlings.”

“And I can’t but help but suspect,” Lord Stuart replied drily, “That there might be a temptation by some of our own lords to pursue some feud against their own neighbours.”

Maybe the headache wasn’t merely a matter of the crown’s physical weight, Roisian thought as border lords started to shout objections. Rather than shout for silence, something likely to be lost in the furore she lifted the sceptre off the pillow and then let its weight carry the head down to strike the table loudly.

“Your pardon, my lords,” she said mildly as all eyes flicked to her. Best not to try doing that too often or they’ll start ignoring that too. “However I was unable to hear Earl Loren. As commander of the northern armies, securing our borders would fall under his responsibilities.”

“Ah, yes your highness.” The Earl hadn’t even been trying to speak up, but being left on the spot gave him little choice. “Some two hundred of your father’s mercenaries are mustered at Kildaren. I propose to use them to reinforce the border lords. I’m sure they’ll be happy to provide food and other supplies for the Connaiti while they’re driving these bandits back across the border.”

“It could also free up some of the border lords to strike back into Gwynedd,” suggested James of Cloome. “They’ve surely taken no fewer losses than our own – it was the Claiborne men that turned the tide and they’re gone east.”

“Well spoken, Earl James. Will the border clans of the east be doing likewise?” suggested Kincaid.

This is all very well as long as Torenth wins or at least keeps the Haldanes busy in the east, Roisian thought as she let the men discuss the military details. But if they lose I don’t think we can look to them for support. My only security is the betrothals and that may be too thin a cord to bind Kyprian to our protection.

She looked at Zygmunt for a moment. Perhaps it’s time to suggest that Prince Nikola and I wed sooner than originally proposed. Having a husband to act as my general rather than Earls with their own interests would be almost as valuable as tying Kyprian to me as my father-in-law.

.o0o.

The Falling Water no longer ran red as Donal’s horse stood knee deep in the waters, but bodies still heaped the shallows. Ahead, the Torenthi herald – like Donal unarmed save for a lance that supported a pennon of white silk – reined his horse to a halt.

“I am Torval, Count of Sostra,” he declared haughtily. “Does the Haldane send a man of rank to treat with King of Torenth?”

“Sir Donal MacAthan. I ride at my King’s right hand.”

Torval sneered. “I did not expect a Duke, but to send not even a Baron? But perhaps Urien has too few now to spare one?”

“If all you’re minded to do is exchange insults I can do that, but my King sent me to offer a truce that we can both collect our wounded and our dead. You can send back to your king for instructions if you’re not empowered to speak for him on that.”

“If one of my knights spoke so impertinently I would have him flogged!”

“Then it’s fortunate for me I’m not one of your knights, nor likely to ever be one.”

Torval’s hands twitched on the reins and his horse sidestepped sharply, ears pricking up before he stilled it. “I’m empowered to reply to that. My master - Kyprian II of Torenth, Kyprian the Conqueror – offers Urien Haldane a truce of the moment, from this hour until sunset. Until that hour let no man of either army cross to the opposite shore, nor carry into the ford any weapon saving blades less than a handspan in length.”

“Does King Kyprian offer terms for the recovery of our dead and wounded upon the eastern shore?” Donal kept his voice level.

The Count shook his head. “He does not, for they are rebels against their rightful liege, Marek Festil, King of Gwynedd.”

That ruthless snake! “Then in reciprocation, no terms are offered for the dead and wounded of Torenth upon the west shore. The other terms you’ve stated are within my authority to accept in the name of King Urien and of his general, Prince Cinhil.”

“Then let us swear oaths to that effect.” Torval opened his saddlebag and produced a crucifix. Bringing it to his lips he kissed it. “I, Torval of Sostra, swear before God in the name of my King that a truce exists between the hosts of Torenth and Gwynedd and the army of the usurper Urien, upon the terms stated. Let my soul be damned to perdition if the truce be broken.”

Despite the slur upon Urien, Donal nodded in acceptance. He’d Truth-Read the count as he spoke and the man was at least sincere. Bishop Faustin MacArt had loaned him his pectoral cross for this purpose and he lifted the small crucifix, wrought of silver thread twisted into complex knotwork, to his own lips. “As servant to King Urien of Gwynedd, Donal MacAthan swears that the truce with the King of Torenth and the Pretender Festil shall be upheld upon the agreed terms, my soul and my lord’s forfeit should we prove false.”

“On the morrow, I shall look for you on the battlefield, MacAthan,” warned Count Torval as he turned his horse.

“Then look beneath the royal banner of Gwynedd and I shall watch for Sostra’s colours too.”

The two nodded in a vestigial politeness before parting.

Donal didn’t have to ride far for Cinhil had given up Tresham’s headquarters at the Schilling inn to the surgeons and was instructing his officers from above the ford, not far from where his father had charged from that morning.

“What news?” he asked calmly as Donal approached.

“We have a truce until sunset, Your Highness. No one is to set foot on the opposite riverbank and those on the ford itself can have only knives up to a handspan in length. He wouldn’t bargain for those on his side of the river.”

“I thought he might not but we had to ask. My lord Archbishops, will your levies take charge of gathering the dead? I’ll detail men to go with them and carry any wounded they found up to the surgeons.”

John of Benevent nodded wearily. “I will set them to that, Your Highness. With your permission I’ll join the priests ministering to the dying. Archbishop Marcus and Bishop MacArt can remain here to offer their council.”

“You have both my permission and my blessing, primate.” Cinhil turned to MacArt, to whom Donal was returning the cross. “I’m told you raised the camp against Festil’s attack this morning, Bishop. Gwynedd owes you a great debt.

The itinerant Bishop hung his pectoral back around his neck. “Those are kind words, Your Highness, but you should direct them to the young knight who carried word to me. If he hadn’t done so and then returned to the ford to lead the first defence…”

“My father is fortunate to be so well-served. Do you know the knight’s name and whether he still lives?”

MacArt shook his head. “I don’t know, sire. He was struck down by the Torenthi at the ford but I later saw him rise from the waters as we rallied to drive them back. When last I saw him, four of Tolan’s knights were assaulting him and I know not what became of him.”

Donal cleared his throat. “If we saw the same man, Your Excellency, then it was Sir Piran ap Coran – a knight in the service to Earl Godwyn. He survived those four knights at least but I lost track of him after that.”

From beside his son, King Urien leant forwards. “I seem to recall that your remarkable archery had something to do with Sir Piran’s survival. Find out if he lives, Donal. Such valour deserves reward.”


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

 _We must work the works of Him who sent Me as long as it is day; night is coming when no one can work._  
John 9:4

In the royal chamber, such as it was, Cinhil looked up as Vasco entered. “What news of Cassan?”

“The Duke’s column has made good time. They’re camped perhaps a mile west of us, behind the next hill. Duke Tambert felt it might serve better than crowding them into our camp now and there’s less chance the Torenthi will learn of his arrival tonight.”

“Adding…how many men are still with him?”

“Eighteen hundred – his own Cassani and the levies from the Purple March.”

“Seeing them join our ranks in the morning should shake up any plans the Torenthi have.” Cinhil nodded in satisfaction. “We’ll need them badly. Our right wing is in tatters.”

“The northern levies have taken the brunt of the battles here, I hear.”

“And they’ve paid a heavy price for that. Everyone here did this morning, getting caught unprepared cost the army dearly. If we didn’t have so many wounded I’d pull the army back to Tambert’s position – Kyprian would almost have to follow and we could force him to fight with the river at his back. But Marek would massacre them as rebels against him and I can’t abandon loyal men to face that.”

“Then we stand here. The ford’s wide but it’s still defensible and after being driven back despite surprise yesterday, Kyprian’s men might hesitate to cross it a second time.”

The prince rose and walked to the fireplace, still cold although a fire was laid and ready to light. “We’ve given him the initiative too much. He could hold the ford with one wing of his army and swing north or south, force us to follow him.”

“He has to feed his men,” pointed out Vasco. “It’s a long way back to Torenth and every supply column needs guards, weakening his army.”

“Or he sends out more foragers. Custus and Kennet Howell are already looking at a famine in Eastmarch with the way they’ve stripped the countryside.”

There was a knock on the door and a moment later Malcolm opened it. “Cinhil, Baron Danoc’s outside and awaits your pleasure.”

“Good. I want to speak to him.”

Malcolm nodded. “Father said he wanted to speak to you in private, when you had the time.”

“I see. Did he say what about?”

“No.” The young prince grimaced and looked at Vasco before adding. “I think it’s about… Deryni matters.”

“Sir Vasco has been taken into our confidence on that matter.” Cinhil rubbed his face. “Come in and close the door. Father told me that he and Sir Donal were going to try to awaken the powers our ancestors are supposed to have once he reached Valoret.”

Malcolm nodded. “I know. I was there. It… wasn’t anything I expected it to be.”

“I’m not entirely convinced it’s necessary at all. There are Deryni burnings almost every year – although sometimes I wonder how many are really Deryni and how many are innocent victims of hysteria whipped up by irresponsible men. Or ambitious men – there are some memoirs father showed to me after I was knighted, written by our great-great-grandfather’s brother about the way the Royal Council operated during the reign of the Restorer’s sons. My point is though, Deryni are as mortal as anyone else.”

“My teachers told me that to use those powers were damned. But when Sir Donal and Father Anscom were… doing what they did, it was clear they thought everything that they did came from God.”

“It’s easy to believe that God wants the same things you do, Malcolm. Something I’ve come to suspect over the years is that it can be hard to tell sometimes if you’re listening to him or just too hard to yourself.”

“Isn’t that what priests are for?”

The elder of the two princes gestured for Malcolm to sit down and the boy obeyed, studying the table-top. “You’ve spent the last two years in a seminary, brother. Has it brought you closer to God?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m not ordained, Cinhil. I’m not even a deacon yet. Maybe that’s where the difference lies.”

“You’d be better speaking to one of the Bishops – or Uncle Jashan when you get the chance. I’ve never felt that vocation.” He shook his head and then raked a stray lock of black hair back from his face. “I don’t think that that’s what’s really bothering you though.”

Malcolm looked up and Vasco was struck by the thought that he had the Haldane eyes, the same shade as his father, lighter than Cinhil’s. “It was almost as if they were sanctifying father once more as King and…” The words burst forth: “Forgive me, Cinhil, they invested me to bear the powers when he was gone. I didn’t want to but father insisted and they… they should be yours. You’re the heir, not I!”

Cinhil’s jaw worked silently and he looked for an instant at Vasco.

“Your Highness?”

“It seems we’ll be working well into the night. Could you arrange more candles?”

“Of course.” Vasco opened the door and left the two royal brothers alone, as they clearly wanted. His own mind was a whirl. Malcolm had been forced to participate in this… rite? Early lessons from the village priest conjured images of Donal and a man robed as a priest conjuring devils to serve the king, but surely Urien would have had no truck with such an act.

But still, investing whatever power was called up in Malcolm was a worrying step. Was it a sign that Malcolm, not Cinhil, was Urien’s chosen heir?

Then another thought struck Vasco and as he stood in the doorway he had to rest his weight on the frame for a moment.

Or was Malcolm intended as another layer of protection for Cinhil, keeping the heir to the throne protected from direct magical influence. Overheard phrases from the discussions in Rhemuth suddenly held a new light. If the Church decried Urien’s powers, might the king be willing to sacrifice not only himself to sate clerical anger but also to set up a secondary Haldane line as protectors to their royal cousins who could thereby avoid the stigma of using magic themselves.

.o0o.

Scores of candles were scattered around the chamber, occupying shelves and candelabra’s as well as the centre of the table as Cinhil called the war council to order.

Piran saw Sir Donal standing behind King Urien’s chair at the head of the table and the knight gave him a wry nod as he took his own place behind Earl Godwyn. Between earl and king sat Prince Cinhil at his father’s right hand. Unlike most of the officers and aides the knight behind the prince, Sir Vasco, wore full armour like the guards flanking the doors.

“Thank you for your blessings upon us, Archbishop Marcus.” Cinhil’s face was more drawn that when Piran had last seen him in the Purple March. “I’ll begin by saying that while I blame no one for the difficulties our armies faced this morning, we can’t allow them to arise again.”

“I’ve appointed Lord Kennet Howell to arrange pickets along the river – and across it if any of his men can get across without drawing notice. Lord Howell will report directly to me and if he instructs any of you ready your men and respond to attack, you may assume he has the authority to do so. I’m making each of you responsible for appointing officers to oversee your camps in shifts through the night.”

Having let that sink in, Cinhil turned down the table to look at Baron Danoc. “Gillis, you’re still in command of the centre but I’m taking the cavalry under my own command. Earl Howell and his company from Eastmarch will be transferred to reinforce you and the young Earl will be your second. In addition, if anything happens to me, you’re next to command the army unless the king specifically relieves you.”

“I understand, Your Highness. Thank you for the trust you’re placing in me.”

“Thank you for the service you’ve rendered, Earl Danoc.”

Gillespie’s eyes widened sharply at the change in title.

“Letters patent are being drawn up,” Urien confirmed, the first time he’d spoken. “It isn’t too far to say that without your leadership we might now be in retreat towards Valoret. It is the privilege of kings to reward such service as it deserves.”

“And it is much deserved.” With that said, Cinhil turned to look at Keene MacEwan. “You’re next after Gillis, Keene, as well as taking over the right wing from your father.”

The new Duke – for his elder brother Geoffrey had finally succumbed to his wounds at some point in the day, the death unnoticed for hours as the battle raged and surgeons focused on saving those lives they could of those carried from the battlefield – bowed his head. “Aye. With your permission I’d like to name young Gillis de Traherne as my second for the right.”

Heads turned to the new Earl of Rhendall, who flushed. “If the Earl of Marley doesn’t object.”

Becan Coris shook his head. “’Twas my proposal, Gillis. Marley will follow you.”

“You’ve shown your quality,” Becan’s twin brother Benan agreed from behind the Earl. “And your father has much to be proud of you.”

Cinhil nodded his approval too. “As the Eastmarch levies will be under Earl Gillis’ command, I’ll add the Connaiti to the right wing as well. You’ve marched with them this last week so I’m sure you can manage them.”

“If, God forbid, it should be necessary,” he continued, “then upon Duke Keene’s death the command of the entire army will go to the Duke of Cassan. For those unaware, Duke Tambert and eighteen hundred men are a mile or so west of us and will be joining us in the morning. Since his son-in-law Lord Arnall has been left in Cassan to deal with any further invasion by the Mearans, I’ve sent Sir Allen FitzOsberne to make him familiar with the ground and act as his second.”

There was a sour muttering from Osberne FitzOsberne, the young Count of Lindestark and cousin to the named knight. He was politely ignored by everyone at the table save for the Coris brothers who glared him into silence.

“And finally, on the left wing, Earl Euan remains in command and will take charge if all the aforementioned generals are dead or unable to lead the army. In that case, Earl Euan, I suspect you’ll be inheriting a terrible mess so I offer my sincerest apologies in advance.”

“While I hope your apology is never merited, Your Highness, I’m honoured to serve. Bishop MacArt – after promising faithfully to lead no more sudden charges on the enemy – has agreed to serve as my second as well as commanding the ecclesiastical levies.”

Piran turned to look and to his shock saw the lean, grey-haired cleric he’d met that only that morning (it seemed so much longer ago) nodding in rueful agreement. “A moment when passion overcame caution,” he confirmed and, catching Piran’s gaze, he stood and bowed. “God, I’m pleased to see, has seen fit to preserve you, Sir Piran.”

Feeling his cheeks burning, Piran was relieved of his embarrassment when the prince nodded as if there had been no interruption. “As said before, I’ll take personal charge of the cavalry in the centre and Earl Godwyn will act as my deputy. He has my full confidence and of course the services of the famous Sir Piran.”

“It was the men of the ecclesiastical levies who held the ford, Your Highness. I was simply in the right place at the right time.”

“Don’t be so modest, Piran.” Godwyn half-turned in his chair. “You were in the right place at the right time outside Culdi too and more importantly both times you did what needed to be done. If you keep doing that then it’ll exceed my resources as a mere Earl to suitably reward you.”

“To spare Sir Piran more blushes, I’ll change the topic,” Prince Cinhil steepled his fingers in front of him, “I’ve given some thought to our next move.”

“Respectfully, Your Highness, even with the Duke of Cassan’s arrival we’re outnumbered by the Torenthi and we’re in a good defensive position. By move though, you seem to imply that you plan… well, movement. Surely it would be better to stand in the camp for at least another day or two. Despite gaining surprise I reckon the Torenthi losses were as heavy as our own today. The next time they try to take the ford we’ll bloody them badly – perhaps enough to put the numbers in our favour for the first time.”

“Nothing you’ve said is wrong, Earl Euan. But we cannot assume that Kyprian will try to force the ford again. Even if he thinks his edge in numbers is much greater than it is for now, he must be aware that further reinforcements will reach us eventually and that he could lose another thousand or more men by attacking.” Cinhil rose to his feet. “But there’s more important thing that that, gentlemen.”

“Since the beginning of the year, Kyprian of Torenth has been the one calling the tune and all we’ve been able to do is respond to his actions. If we wait here then we’re leaving him the chance to change the terms of the campaign by swinging north or south to ravage more of Gwynedd. But if we move first then he’ll have to dance our tune for a change.”

“And what… uh… tune do you have in mind?” Gillis de Traherne enquired carefully. “We have to assume he’ll be prepared against the possibility of a counter-attack.”

“Particularly if we go at dawn.” Keene tapped his chin. “But if he thinks that we’re going to stand then he might start thinking about moving part of his army north or south which would wrong-foot him and perhaps leave some companies of his army out of position to respond.”

“Good thinking. And let’s be honest, our men need a little time to prepare and attacking at dawn would put the sun in our eyes. No, you and I seem to have a similar thought in mind, Keene.” Cinhil tapped on the table with his fingers. “What I had in mind was to have the Duke of Cassan’s division march directly through our camp to assault the ford. If they can form a… schiltron, it’s called I believe, then their pikes will be a nasty shock for any Torenthi horse that try to break their lines. Particularly his Moors – I saw their kin in R’Kassi and with their blood up they could easily make a serious mistake.”

“It’s a shame there’s not a better man in Corwyn,” grumbled MacArt. “Kyprian wouldn’t be half so dangerous if he had to keep his Moors in the south to face the Gryphon banner.”

“Duke Jernian’s action or inaction can be addressed another day. For now, gentlemen, we have an attack to plan.”

.o0o.

“Your Excellency.” Piran knelt to kiss Faustin MacArt’s ring as the council broke up, the details of the plan for the next day hammered out. “I’d like to apologise if I wasn’t properly respectful when I burst into your camp this morning.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” The Bishop touched the ringed hand to Piran’s head in benediction before letting the knight rise. “The courtesies due a prince, whether temporal or of the Church, are made for men not men for those rules and the moment hardly allowed time for such things. I’m only glad I’d been awake for the dawn mass.”

“I led a lot of your congregation to their deaths.”

“That is the burden of men like you and Prince Cinhil.” MacArt took his arm. “If you have the need for some spiritual counselling I think Earl Euan can spare me for a few minutes. Just between you and I, he may be a little angrier with me about this morning than he suggested.”

“This morning?”

“This morning,” a familiar voice with the accent of Claibourne interjected, “The good Bishop decided to charge the Torenthi right all on his own. Euan de Cynfyn is a stout fellow but when half his command decided to chase a Bishop into the enemy I think there’s some small chance he might feel he’s been a little undermined.”

“Indeed and I’ve apologised most remorsefully to him. I had no idea the Mother Church’s levies would follow me.” MacArt thrust his arms into the sleeves of his cassock but his expression was more aggrieved than penitent. “I’m a man of God not of Arms. It’s not given unto me to know that men will follow me into battle.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Your Excellency, why did you charge the army on your own?”

“Well if you must know, I saw a young knight I’d sent down into that Golgotha about to be set upon by four of those foreign devils.”

Piran’s eyes went wide. “You…”

“A good shepherd is responsible for his flock, Sir Piran.” MacArt crossed himself. “But praise God you survived.”

“God and some very fortunate arrows,” Piran admitted. “And I’m really not holy enough for God to have sent the arrows personally.”

“Well not God, precisely.” Donal looked a little smug.

The younger knight grinned in comprehension and held out his hand. The two of them clasped forearms. “I can’t think of many bowmen who could have taken those shots.”

“Perhaps the Good Lord helped. Who knows, but the Bible tells us that he moves in mysterious ways.”

“The Earl of Lendour can’t be too angry with you, if he appointed you his second,” offered Piran in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

MacArt shook his head. “He wasn’t spoiled for choice. With half his force made up of ecclesiastical soldiers it had to be one of the Bishops with the army. Both Archbishops are planning to accompany the king tomorrow and Vespian d’Aphienne already volunteered to take charge of the ministering the wounded.”

“What about Leontius Quadratius? The Bishops of Dhassa are formally princes anyway and Lendour falls in his diocese. Not that I’m not entirely happy with you were chosen but it seems odd he wouldn’t choose the Bishop he knows best.”

MacArt smiled self-depreciatingly. “Leontius is a fine Bishop, perhaps one of the best of us. But Euan knows him too well and my brother of Dhassa is too good a priest. When he saw the levies fighting at the ford yesterday, he dropped to his knees and started praying for understanding between us and an end to the bloodshed.” He shook his head. “I’m less worthy than that, a little too much man and too little priest, but perhaps that’s what the situation calls for.”

Piran nodded. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are both Archbishops going to ride with King Urien tomorrow?”

MacArt smiled. “Some say our good King may be a saint.”

“Do they have some specific reason for that?” asked Piran.

The bishop nodded to Donal. “You would have been there, Sir Donal, riding with the king when that foul Deryni sought to destroy him with his magic.”

“He succeeded all too well with the Duke of Claibourne.” Donal observed bleakly. “But yes, I was there. One of the Jandrich knights, perhaps the Duke himself, burned Duke Tresham down with magic. He tried to do the same to King Urien but the King raised his sword and the spell turned back on itself to destroy the one who cast it.”

“Some say that it was the sword, others that the King bears some ancient protection from the Interregnum,” MacArt explained. “And of course it’s been claimed for years that as sanctified Kings the Haldanes receive the direct protection of the Almighty from the wiles of the Deryni. The Archbishops will be accompanying the King to watch for any further miracles… and to add their own prayers to whatever guards him of course. The maledictions of a consecrated Archbishop must have special power, after all.”

.o0o.

Across the river the pavilion of King Kyprian was lit far more brightly than all the candles in Cinhil’s war council could have accomplished as Patriarch Abraam led a requiem mass for the flowers of Torenthi nobility that had fallen in battle.

While Kyprian took precedence among the mourners, King Marek flanked him at all times with a court robe over his bandaged wounds.

“The attack may have failed,” murmured Nikola under his breath. “But one can’t say it was for lack of courage on Marek’s part.”

Árpád nodded. “I’ve made enquiries and there are several witnesses who saw him unhorsed during the charge to try to rescue the Duke of Jandrich from the Haldane. He’s lucky he wasn’t killed – he was near the front and he could easily have been trampled to death.”

“I’ve never called him a coward, or even doubted his skill at arms. He’s still as vicious as a weasel.”

Arkady and his companions fell silent as they filed past the bodies of Ygor Furstán, Max-Echehardt Haberlingen and their sons. The place where the two dukes’ close relatives were conspicuously empty save for Ygor’s brother. Having genuflected before the Patriarch and the bodies, Arkady and Nikola offered their condolences to the hollow-eyed new duke.

“Who inherits Lorsöl?”

“There’s an uncle I think. I don’t know much about him. I’m more interested in the other rumour. Urien Haldane was supposed to have slain Ygor in a duel arcane.”

“Nothing so formal,” Árpád reported. “It’s more that the late Duke tried to blast him down with conjured fire and somehow it was turned back upon him.”

“Marek can’t be happy to hear that.”

“Which part: that Urien survived or that he used magic?”

“Neither is particularly good news for him.” Nikola shrugged carelessly. “I’m glad I had an excuse not to face the Haldane in a duel now. That would’ve been a very nasty surprise.”

“You were going to face him in a duel?” asked Arkady in surprise. “When was this?”

“Didn’t I mention it? It was when I was your herald to him at Saint Piran’s.” He thought. “No, sorry. I forgot to mention it - getting hit on the head must have knocked the thought out of my head. He offered to settle the battle with the two of us against he and one of his men rather than seeing both sides take heavy losses. I didn’t think father would accept that as binding though so I couldn’t follow up on it.”

“Probably he wouldn’t have, no. So the stories about the Haldanes are true – in part at least. I wonder how the Church of Gwynedd feels about their king using magic.”

“I hardly think he can make regular use of it. But then, it would be difficult to be king without that. I hate to think how difficult it would be to judge cases in Arkadia without being able to Truth-Read.”

“They seem to manage. And when was the last time you were in Arkadia to judge cases instead of leaving it to your steward?”

“February… I managed to get away from court for a week or so. You were busy helping father with the hunt for more Haldane spies after that business with the Makrorys.”

Arkady nodded. “Perhaps with today’s defeat father might be more open to the concept of calling Urien out for a duel arcane.”

“I’d rather you didn’t put yourself at risk.” Nikola shook his head. “It could be Urien can’t do much more than protect himself – it’s not as if Ygor was using any sophisticated magic against him – but we don’t know how far his powers extend.”

“I was thinking more that Marek might be put forwards. He’s the rightful King of Gwynedd so who better to face the usurper?”

Nikola shrugged. “I can’t see that father would be upset by the idea being broached. And I’d rather see that duel fought than try taking my Arkadians across the ford. Those Kheldour men fought like devils.”

“Perhaps they knew they were fighting the same men who killed the Earl of Eastmarch. The northern lands of Gwynedd are mostly ruled by the descendants of Earl Sighere, the last independent rulers of Eastmarch. They’ve been allies for generations.”

“Perhaps you’re right. At least Arkadia is far enough from the borders of Gwynedd that I don’t have to worry about them launching raids on my demesne to avenge themselves.”

Arkady spread his hands. “They might need to raise a new generation first, they surely bled enough against us before they fell back across the ford. We’re getting away from the point of Haldanes with the power of Deryni though. Unless they’re Deryni themselves… that would explain a lot.”

“Whether they’re Deryni or not, they must have to go to a lot of trouble to hide their lessons. You know how much scrutiny we were under as boys, everyone wanting to see what the young princes of Torenth were made of, guards to make sure we didn’t come to harm, priests and teachers wanting to mould us… can you imagine how hard it must be for them to hide the fact they’re being taught the magics their Church forbids.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to find out.” Arkady mused, stroking his chin. “That’s another matter to raise to father – the Haldanes must have built up a library unless they’re limited to the most basic of magics. Letting us raid it would be the least we can ask of Marek for all the aid he and his family have received from us over the years.”

Árpád coughed uneasily. “We may see other changes in the Haldane’s armies now that their Earl Marshal is dead.”

Nikola snapped his fingers. “Yes, I’d forgotten – it’s sure that he’s dead?”

“Well perhaps not, but he was on fire when last seen and that was early in the day. If he lives then he’s unlikely to be in any condition to command. And even if he is, Urien’s heir is his chief general and his banner was seen while our heralds agreed the truce to collect our wounded and dead from the ford.”

“Cinhil Haldane. We don’t know his character well. He defeated the Mearans though, so he can’t be entirely inept.”

“Come now, brother. That’s your future principality you speak of. Surely they have the merits that only an entirely competent general could have bested them.”

Nikola gestured uncertainly. “On the one hand, if the Mearans are great warriors then we now face a general of genuine accomplishment. On the other hand, if Cinhil is only mediocre then what does that say about my betrothed’s people? Either way I lose.”

“Well, either way you also win.”

Nikola shook his head. “Perhaps it’s a little of both. Tomorrow perhaps we’ll find out, at least about Cinhil Haldane.”

.o0o.

“Sir Vasco,” Donal raised his hand in greeting as he went to the door of the king’s bedchamber.

The other knight touched his gauntleted hand to his chest but as Donal reached for the door handle he put the hand out to stop him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in.”

“Why not? I’m supposed to attend on the king.”

“He’s in a private conference with his sons. I’m not allowed in either.”

Donal blinked and then rubbed his face. “Well ours not to reason why.” He went back and pulled a chair away from the table and sat in it. “I hope you won’t be offended if I take the opportunity to rest my feet.”

“You can rest your eyes too if you want. His Highness didn’t confide on his reasons for wanting their conversation to be private but he said they might be a while.”

“No.” Donal rubbed his eyes. “If I close my eyes then I might not open them again until morning. I’m astounded Urien has the energy for a long conversation.”

Vasco nodded. “You didn’t manage to break your fast until well after noon either. Do you want any of the stew? There should be some left in the pot.”

“Maybe later.” Donal leant forwards on the table and then started violently as a heavy bowl thumped down next to his head. “What!”

“It’s later.” Vasco sat opposite him. “You dozed off for a few minutes.”

The contents of the bowl were more mash than stew – heavier on grain than on meat or vegetables – and at best lukewarm but once he had a spoonful in his mouth, Donal realised he was ravenous and devoured it as if it was the best meal he’d ever had.

“Hunger is the best spice,” Vasco said sagely. He pushed a cup over and uncapped a flask. “Wash that down.”

The wine was stronger than Donal expected. “Shouldn’t this be watered?”

“I don’t think the water down by the river is the best to use at the moment.”

“You’re probably right.” He tossed it back. “Somehow when the bards sing of war they seem to omit talking about being tired or hungry.”

“Well they are bards. Those wouldn’t be very inspiring topics for a ballad.” Vasco picked up a cloak. “Get some sleep. Who knows how early you’ll need to wake in the morning.”

“Aren’t you tired? You made a forced march today.”

“I didn’t wake as early.” The other knight shrugged. “Or fight a battle either. Don’t worry about it. I’ll wake you if the king calls for you.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

 _Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come._  
Matthew 24:42

“I couldn’t tell you if it’s Cinhil Haldane that makes the difference or if someone over there is learning fast but they had a strong picket last night and at dawn there were infantry standing too near the shore, some two thousand strong according to our own pickets.”

Kyprian frowned. “Don’t mince your words with me, Imre. For all your son’s valour yesterday we’ve suffered a reverse. Launching a second attack upon the ford will be a bloody business now – bloodier than it already was.”

“Defending a position is simpler than storming one, Sire.” Imre of Tolan spread his hands. “I see three alternative courses of action to a further assault on the ford.”

“Moving north to Grecotha or south to Valoret are obvious.” The king scowled at his brother–in-law. “What is the third though?”

“We could feign a retreat upon our position at the Priory of Saint Piran and draw the Haldane’s army forward and across the ford either in full or in part. While it would be galling to give even the impression that we’re in retreat, a battle on this side of the river would have advantages with his flanks no longer secure.”

“I’ll not give Urien Haldane the pleasure of thinking that we’re defeated, not even as a ruse.”

Arkady cleared his throat. “It seems to me, Duke Imre, that moving along the river has just as great a chance of drawing Prince Cinhil across the river as a retreat would.”

“You make an excellent point, Your Highness. And it’s likely the Haldane will need much of today to reorganise his army after the losses they took yesterday. Being driven back to the river after their counterattack faltered will have hurt their morale.”

“Then we’ll steal a march upon them and move now.” Kyprian smacked his knee. “South appeals to me and it should to you, Imre. Take back Valoret and the tombs of your ancestors. Seeing your son enthroned at Valoret and the usurpers toothless to prevent it should sway any doubters, wouldn’t you say?”

“It would be my own recommendation.” Imre drew out a map. “Our spies report a strong stone bridge across the Eirian at Saint Mark’s Abbey, east of its confluence with the Falling Water River. If our vanguard marches today then we should be there in three days and besieging Valoret the day after.”

“There is a possibility that may be worthy of consideration.”

Kyprian looked at his son. “What might that be, Arkady?”

“Nikola tells me that when he treated with Urien Haldane before the Battle of Saint Piran’s the Haldane seemed open to the possibility of settling accounts in a duel of champions, and even of contending himself against Nikola or I. If my royal cousin Marek were to send a herald across the river, offering a challenge to place the matter before God in a trial of combat… well, either Urien shows he believes God will not favour him by decline or he accepts.” Arkady bowed slightly to Duke Imre. “King Urien is hale, but your son is more than a decade younger and a fully trained Deryni to boot. He could even offer a duel of pairs, with yourself or Prince Festil to support him while the Haldane must commit his heir alongside himself.”

“An interesting proposition,” Imre conceded thoughtfully. “As things stand I would be inclined to defer such a challenge until my son’s wounds have had a chance to heal but if we offered such a challenge outside Valoret, whether we held the city or not, it might incline the Haldane to favour the proposal, particularly if some amnesty were offered to his younger sons.”

“You would spare them?” challenged Kyprian.

“That would be a matter for my son to decide, however I seem to recall that one of the boys had a religious vocation like his uncle. That would remove him as a dynastic concern so long as he agreed to pursue it at a religious house we could secure. As for his youngest son… some estate can be found and after a year or two, well accidents do happen.”

“If they accept the outcome.”

“Losing a king is a dire blow to any realm, Sire.” The duke looked back to Arkady. “A very interesting proposal, Your Highness and one that merits further discussion with my son. My thanks for bringing the possibility to my consideration.”

“It was my pleasure. So we march on Valoret then?”

“We do.” Kyprian rose from his chair. “Imre, if your son’s injuries require more time then take command of the left wing, which will now become our vanguard for the march south. Arkady, the right wing will become our rear-guard with the supply train between my own companies and yours. Your cavalry is best placed to respond to any attempt to interfere in our movements.”

“Of course father. It shall be as you command.”

.o0o.

Although Vasco knew the Prince had only managed to snatch a few brief hours of sleep he seemed more relaxed as he watched the Lendour and Carthmoor men erect wattle fences down by the ford. The fences weren’t the most substantial of barriers but men behind them would be at least partially screened from arrows and the ‘bastions’ gave some landmarks to the otherwise torn and despoiled fields.

“It wouldn’t take more than a minute’s work by some axemen to cut a hole in those fences.”

“I certainly hope you’re right. It’s enough if they give the Torenthi the impression we’re more interested in building up our positions here than in moving forwards. If they’re too substantial they’ll obstruct our own soldiers marching across the ford.”

Vasco nodded his understanding. “And there’s something to be said for keeping the men busy.” He looked down the slope and then chuckled. “For that matter, Your Highness, when Duke Tambert arrives may I suggest having the men down there tear the fence up in sections and throw it over the worst of the mud. It’s at least ankle deep and that’s before we have thousands more of our men tramping through it.”

Cinhil actually chuckled. “Good thinking.” He turned to Jaron. “Pass those instructions on to Earl Euan, Jaron.”

“You’re in good spirits, Your Highness.” Vasco lowered his voice slightly in case anyone rode closer. “I don’t wish to intrude on your private business, but after the Deryni your father killed yesterday, it’s possible the enemy may use more magic today. The man did manage to kill Duke Tresham after all.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this line of questioning, Vasco.” There was a warning note in the prince’s voice.

Thinking better of asking if the prince had received the Haldane magic the previous night, Vasco quickly changed the thrust of his enquiry. “Are there any orders you’d like circulated to deal with that?”

“The churchmen with the army are dealing with that well enough. It’s the divinely decreed duty of every man in the army to slay any Deryni found among the enemy ranks.”

The knight winced at the cool disdain in Cinhil’s words. “They’re going to spark another purge if they keep preaching that.”

“I believe there are those among the Curia who wouldn’t disapprove of that. Bishop MacArt seems to take particular exception to Duke Jernian but there’s already been whispering among the northern contingents that Torenth may have Deryni spies within Gwynedd. There’s going to be an ugly backlash even if we win.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Keep a cool head, Vasco. And watch out for Sir Donal if you can. Father is confident of his loyalty but the army aren’t likely to see matters the same way if he’s caught using magic.”

“Are you convinced of his loyalty?”

Cinhil sighed. “That was a topic of discussion last night. Whatever he may say, it seems to Malcolm and I that our good Sir Donal has his own agenda. I’m not saying that that agenda is hostile to us but we can’t rely absolutely on him to remain loyal if our interests and those of his people diverge.”

“In the face of another widespread persecution, for example.”

The prince didn’t answer, instead tugging on the reins of his horse. “We should visit Earl Godwyn’s camp. I’ve not seen his men since I took command and no one should follow a lord into battle without ever laying eyes upon him.”

“And Earl Gillis would like to discuss deployments again. He still feels his division and the northerners should be moved across the ford to provide a closer support for the attack.”

Cinhil shook his head. “If we wait for thousands more men to cross the ford we’ll be doing well to attack before sun is setting.”

.o0o.

The Cassani pipers were silent as the pikemen marched into the camp. The sound of pipes would have betrayed their presence to the enemy just as much as carrying the heavy pikes shouldered. Instead the Cassan levies were preserving surprise by entering the camp carrying the pikes level – an awkward business requiring careful teamwork.

That was their forte though – while the border clans might excel in fast raids and skirmishes, Cassan had won independence from Meara and held onto it for more than a hundred years through their lowland clansmen fighting as a band of brothers. More than once a line of pikes, each man depending on those beside him to hold the line had proved impenetrable to light cavalry.

Now they would put that to the test against Torenth and if the veterans of Cleyde weren’t precisely glad at the prospect of battle they were at least looking forward to being able to carry their heavy and cumbersome pikes in the fashion they were accustomed.

“We’re clearing away some of the tents to give you a clear path down to the river,” Donal assured Tambert as the duke watched his men filter through the village. “When your pikes go up that’s the signal to clear away the obstacles by the ford as well. You can march right down and across.”

“Good.” Tambert turned his head from watching the men in his colours. “When this is over, Sir Donal, I hope we have another chance to see who the best archer is.”

“I’m sure I can find a silver penny somewhere in my coin purse, Your Grace.”

The duke laughed, as much for the sake of his men’s confidence as anything. “I must be getting old and morbid. So once we’re across the ford, we’re to turn left? That leaves our flank open.”

“The enemy’s best cavalry is on their right flank – our left – so turning keeps your men facing them. Our own horse will follow you across, dividing into two squadrons – Earl Godwyn on your left and Prince Cinhil on the right. Earl Euan’s division will follow then and take position to the right of the prince, with his own cavalry for the extreme right flank.”

“This all hinges on tight co-ordination then.”

Donal nodded. “The Torenthi camp isn’t fortified and their left struck camp and marched an hour ago. They’ll turn back when they hear we’re attacking but we couldn’t ask for more of an opportunity.”

“Very good then. The last of my men are arriving now so tell the prince we’ll be ready when he gives the word.”

“No, your grace.” Donal bowed. “The armies of Gwynedd stand ready. Prince Cinhil has given orders and we’re ready to march on your word.”

Tambert squared his shoulders. “Pass on my thanks then.”

He spurred his horse forward to where the pikemen were forming out of marching columns into the lines they’d fight in. Even packed tightly shoulder to shoulder they filled the space and more tents were being collapsed and moved aside as the last men arrived.

Duke Tambert pointed at the pipers and raised one hand before turning to look at Donal.

“Bring down those tents,” Donal called to the men waiting by the last tents screening the pikemen from the ford. They’d already been emptied and now the men yanked pegs and poles out of the ground.

Tambert’s arm dropped like an axe falling and the pipes began to skirl as the men of Cassan raised their pikes up on their shoulders with a cheer.

.o0o.

Stiofan de Corwyn tightened his hands on the reins of his horse as he felt the first distant touch upon his shields.

“Father, are you well?”

“I’m fine, Airlie.” Steadying himself, the heir to Corwyn adjusted the arming cap on his head as he felt another brush. “Cover for me,” he added under his breath. “Someone’s trying to reach me.”

“Grandfather?”

“I don’t know yet.” He nudged his horse closer to Airlie’s and softened his shields to allow the contact, glad they were on steady riding mounts rather than more high-strung destriers currently being lead with the packhorses that carried his men’s battle armour. *Who are you?*

*Walther de Cynfyn… we’ve met two years ago at the King’s Christmas Court.*

Stiofan had to think for a minute before he placed the name. *Earl Euan’s cousin – you were attending in his place after he broke his leg hunting. I didn’t know you had any training.*

There was the sensation of a chuckle. *I prefer not to let it be widely known, for obvious reasons.*

*Why are you contacting me? And where are you?*

*As to the first, you’re the only Deryni I know who might be able and willing to shed some light on a pressing question.*

*I’m hardly a master of esoteric lore, Sir Walther. And if you don’t mind, I’m riding so this isn’t a good time.*

*It’s nothing esoteric, Lord Stiofan. I’ve a commission from my cousin and by extension from King Urien to find out where your levies are – I already know the camps along the Torenthi border are a sham. A few score old men and boys maintaining tents and campfires as if they housed a thousand men and their horses.*

Stiofan hesitated and then sighed. *You want to know my father’s intentions.*

*The hosts of Gwynedd and Torenth clashed yesterday and the outcome still hangs in the balance. If you’re riding north then adding your father’s levies to either side could tip that balance.*

*You’ve guess right. We should be somewhere north of Caerrorie right now. But even if I were willing to betray my father to you, I couldn’t – he hasn’t confided in me.* Stiofan frowned. *You’re reaching me from Corwyn?*

Walther’s voice was dry. *Not quite so far, and I’m being helped.* He paused. *Your father may rule Corwyn but everyone knows you’ve been his hands these last few years. As one knight to another, one Deryni to another… I hope you do the right thing.*

Then he was gone and Stiofan shook his head.

“Father?”

He shot his son a reassuring look. At fourteen Airlie was barely a man in the eyes of the law but he had a few years yet before the responsibilities of that had to fall on his shoulders – hopefully. “I need to talk to your grandfather. Do you think you can lead the column for a while?”

“All I need to do is follow the guide and do what your captains tell to.”

“That and be responsible if things go awry. Listen to them but make your own decisions, Airlie.”

The boy gulped and then nodded.

“Good lad.”

A long ride through the mountains had worn away at Jernian’s endurance and the old man was pinchfaced when Stiofan reached him. “What brings you, son?”

“Someone just contacted me. It seems your - our - deception about the camps along the Western river has been discovered.”

“Who by?”

“Walther de Cynfyn – a cousin of the Earl of Lendour I know slightly. He claimed to be acting for King Urien but I’m not sure he was being entirely truthful.”

Jernian snorted. “More than likely not but that doesn’t rule out being generally in favour of the Haldanes. I’d be surprised if Lendour didn’t receive similar offers to those I did but he’s with the King’s army.”

“That hardly rules out the chance that his cousin couldn’t have been suborned. The first King Festil was generous to his supporters, his descendant might follow his example.”

“I’ve given him every cause to consider me at least neutral towards him.” The duke coughed, repeatedly, before continuing. “I think, at worst, he will be too focused upon the Haldane armies he faces to order any attack on Corwyn. And if I’m wrong then, as you told me, Coroth has never once fallen to a siege.”

“You’ll stand for Urien then?”

“Perhaps, but it remains too early to say for shore. I’d prefer not to burn a bridge I might yet want to cross. Marek of Festil will forgive me a slight deception if I sealed his victory. Urien, on the other hand, may let the Church have their way even if our men do turn the tide for him.”

“He’s only the more likely to do so if he suspects you’ve been in contact with the Festils.”

“My dear son, he’d suspect me of that even if I was entirely innocent.”

.o0o.

Arkady’s horse screamed and he kicked his feet out of the stirrups, barely getting his left leg up before the great horse fell and pinned the limb below it. “Jesu!”

There was no time to pity the poor beast – Arkady had to throw himself aside or the red surcoated knight who’d managed to drive a lance into the horse’s shoulder would have had him.

The only saving grace of the scramble that resulted was that at least he’d strayed far enough from his banner that it wasn’t obvious he was the prince. Otherwise every one of the Haldane lancers nearby would be turning to get him, hoping for a royal ransom for sparing his life or a royal reward from their master for taking that life.

As it was, he barely managed to move aside before another lancer was approaching him, sword out to strike at him in passing. Arkady took the blow on his shield, which cracked, and then flicked his own sword around to slash at the tendons of the lancer’s horse the way his instructors had taught him to. Hamstrung, the war horse stumbled and Arkady was upon the rider before he’d regained his balance.

Sword bloody, the prince glanced around. It was hard to tell with mounted men all around – some in his own colours, thankfully, but there was no sign they were making progress against the Haldane’s left. Wherever he’d found the mass of pikemen that fought under a blue and white banner, they were more obdurate than even the square of men-at-arms at Saint Piran’s.

“Arkady!”

He jerked his head around and saw a knot of Arkadian lancers charging towards him, Nikola at his head – sword in one hand and the reins of a second horse, one whose saddle was empty, gripped in the other.

Dropping his own shield, Arkady tore the Haldane lancer’s shield from the dead man’s grip and ran towards his brother. Flinging his left arm up to seize the saddlebow he fumbled a moment to get his foot into the stirrup and then swung himself up and into the saddle.

“You’re going to confuse people carrying a red shield.” Nikola leant over and slapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn’t go with the hart on your surcoat.”

“Thank you for the horse, brother, but unless you have some paint the shield will have to do for now.” It was a little heavier than he preferred but at least it didn’t have a spiked boss like some Moorish shields.

Nikola nodded and drew a long dagger from his belt. “Since you mention it, let me know if you find another. I seem to have dropped mine somewhere.

A horn blew ahead and the mass of horsemen jerked as dozens of red-clad riders broke off and rallied to a banner waving invitingly.

The two brothers exchanged looks. “We can’t let Carthane rally for another charge. Those damn lowland horses…”

Arkady nodded grimly. The Earl of Carthane might not be the most subtle of cavalry commanders but he knew how to deliver a nicely massed charge and he’d demonstrated the previous day by grinding Suleiman’s light horsemen into the dirt on this very ground. “Then we have to charge first.”

“For Furstán and Arkadia!”

Men released from the melee by the Haldane horsemen consolidating came to that cry and somehow the horses found a second wind, hooves thundering as Arkady and Nikola flanked the Arkadian battle banner and plunged towards the Carthane banner.

At the last minute the enemy banner seemed to leap towards them and the Haldanes burst into a counter-charge, the two lines of horsemen crashing into each other with a sound like thunder.

Arkady had vague recollections of the Carthane banner, of his new steed rearing and its hooves flailing towards a knight with an earl’s coronet on his helm.

He must have been unhorsed again he realised, finding himself on foot, battering his shield against that of a tall knight – a spiked shield boss might have been some use there, actually and stabbing around it with his sword.

“Piran!”

A tall black horse barged into him and Arkady got a brief glimpse of the earl’s coronet again. He staggered back and the knight he’d been fighting scrambled up behind the Earl.

Only a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye warned him of another threat and he barely turned in time to block the axe stroke with his scavenged shield. The axe-head broke a sliver of wood free and almost dropped him to the floor – the man he faced wasn’t especially tall but he was broad and the long-hafted axe was double-headed and heavy.

“F…” Phlegm filled his mouth and he spat it out. “Furstán!”

The axe struck the iron rim of the shield this time and actually bit into that! Arkady thrust but the axeman hopped back, spinning the axe in his hand – the head had been chipped against the shield rim at least.

Then he darted forwards with startling speed and slammed the undamaged side of the axe head against the shield. Arkady cried out as the shield boss tore free and his arm driven back against him.

A second sweeping blow and the prince’s sword was torn from his hand as he tried to parry. Stepping back he felt his heel catch on something and he reeled, understanding that once fallen he’d be as good as dead.

The axeman’s lips parted revealing white teeth against his black beard and then the axe lashed out once more.

A weight crashed against Arkady, tumbling him to the ground.

For a moment he thought it had been the axe but the weight remained upon him, far too large and heavy for even the weightiest of axes.

There was a scream and Arkady brought his head up from the ground, seeing a lance head emerge from the axeman’s chest. A moment later and Árpád’s sword cut the scream short, hacking halfway through the man’s neck.

Now, with a chance to take in his surroundings, Arkady realised the weight upon him was a man. He reached out and grasped the man’s shoulders, pushing him up and off his chest. “Th…”

Nikola’s head hung limp between the shoulders in his hands. His jaw worked but only blood emerged.

“N-Nikola?” The prince jerked his legs, pulling them out from under the deadweight… dead, oh God, no. “Nikola! Brother, speak to me!”

The axe, he realised. The axe struck him…

“Árpád! Help us!”

Nikola’s hand moved slowly up to where Arkady’s gripped his shoulder.

The elder prince moved his hand to take Arkady. “Hold on, brother, hold on to me. We’re…”

The corners of Nikola’s mouth twitched slightly as if to smile and perhaps it was imagination but Arkady could have sworn he felt his brother squeeze his hand.

The hand went limp and Arkady felt a cold weight within himself.

“Nikola…” He pressed his brow against his brother’s and tried to reach out to him. The fading embers of the life scattered like smoke from a hand as he tried futilely to knit them back together.

*Oh God, oh God, why couldn’t I have been born with a Healer’s gift!? Nikola! Come back to me!*

Blackness took Arkady’s consciousness.

.o0o.

Piran gripped with his knees and hoped he didn’t slip off the back of Godwyn’s horse as he parried a scimitar from the Earl’s right.

Focused on the man to his left, the young Earl barely seemed to notice, leaning forwards to jab his sword below his opponent’s shield. He exclaimed in triumph and they pushed forwards but Piran couldn’t tell exactly what was happening.

Twisting to try to keep track of his own opponent, Piran saw the man pull back as the Arkadian banner was joined by that of Beldour.

“What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Piran admitted. “I think…”

The men carrying the banners turned their horses and they weren’t alone – an officer in black and white livery waved more riders back, forming them up around two horses that bore bodies across their saddles.

“I think their leaders are dead!”

“Good!” Godwyn made no move to press against the enemy though – his squadron and the Arkadians hadn’t been much different in numbers but the addition of the Beldour knights had almost turned the tide. Instead he raised his voice. “Rally!” he cried out. “Rally on me!”

The tattered squadron joined him, mostly mounted but some like Piran unhorsed.

“Sir Piran, take the dismounted men and reinforce Duke Tambert. There’s no time to round up remounts for you.”

Piran nodded then realised the Earl couldn’t see him. “Yes, my lord!”

Slithering down he almost staggered. The energy that could sustain a man in battle was fading as the immediate threat receded and he had to take two deep breaths before wiping his sword clean on his surcoat. “Dismounted men to me!” he called and started tramping towards the pikemen, wishing the heels of his riding boots were broader and better suited to walking.

The flanking Cassani gave the cluster of men in Haldane livery a brief cheer as they approached and a few moments later a cheerful looking knight offered Piran his hand. “Allen FitzOsberne,” he introduced himself. “Thanks for driving off those horsemen, the flank was looking a bit dicey for a moment there.”

Piran recognised the name, if not the face, of the Duke of Cassan’s second in command for this division of the army. “That’s one way of putting it. Earl Godwyn sent us to join the footmen.”

“The pikemen aren’t the best for storming the camp ahead, so they’ll be moving left around the edge.” The knight reached up and wiped at his brow. “You’d better join the Marcher men, the Duke’ll be leading them into the camp.”

“We’ll do that.” Before moving behind the schiltron, he looked towards the enemy camp. Companies of Torenthi were forming a thin to protect it. However fast the Cassani marched they were going to be striking at defenders who were at least awake and ready for them.

.o0o.

“Push them back!” Vasco shouted helplessly from behind the score of infantry crashing through the Torenthi camp. Somewhere the distinction between companies and even divisions had broken down. The Cassani were holding together around the Torenthi paddocks at the north end of the camp but amid the tangle of tents, order had broken down. He could see men from Grecotha, Lendour and Carthmoor fighting alongside each other in the ‘street’ in front of him.

“Aye, make for t’ big tent!” called out Sean-Seamus from beside him.

With the tangle in front of them neither could go forward but at least they could see further from atop their horses than the footmen could. “Too hell with the tent,” Vasco muttered, “Can you see His Highness?”

“I cannae see more’n thirty yards in this mess,” the highlander replied cheerfully. “But t’ big tent’s where the King o’Torenth would be and where the treasure’s likely kept. Either one’s going to draw a good many folk so why shouldn’t the Haldane be headed there?”

“I suppose that’s about as good a reason as any.” Seeing an opportunity, Vasco pushed his horse forward and cut down one of the Torenthi soldiers, opening up a gap for one of the Lendour men to open up the side of his own opponent and then somehow the skirmish was over, two surviving Torenthi throwing down their spears and fleeing. “Is this a battle or a street brawl?”

“Somewhat o’ both.” Sean-Seamus kicked one of the Carthmoor levy in the shoulder when he stooped for a pouch at the belt of one of the fallen. “What are you doing, you ninny? The real loot’s in the nobles’ tents, keep going before someone else gets there first.”

Somehow the knight doubted a more general chastisement of looting would have sparked the same enthusiasm for the men to keep forcing their way deeper into the camp. “Thank you for handling that.”

“’Tis nothing. There’s going to be more a riot than a brawl if the lads get out of control.”

As if on cue, shouts arose from the southern end of the camp.

“Riot, you said?” The two riders exchanged frustrated looks and Vasco turned his horse onto a path leading in that direction.

“Aye. Bluidy church levies, I’ll be bound. Should hae left them to guard the ford.”

.o0o.

“The enemy left’s turned about and marching for the prince’s right flank!”

Gillis Gillespie dropped the mug he’d been drinking from, not caring that the ale spilled into the grass. “What! They should be a good two hour’s march away!”

Kennet Howell shrugged. “Well they’re not. I’ve no idea why, but they’re there and Euan of Lendour only has his own horse to screen the camp – it’s a mess through there, half the centre’s still fighting the Torenthi and the others are sacking the camp.”

“Alright fine. What are Cinhil’s orders?”

“I don’t know! I couldn’t find him!” exclaimed Howell. “For all I know he’s dead.”

“I doubt that very much.” Urien took Gillespie and Howell by the shoulders. “Lord Danoc, with my son out of touch you’re in charge. Lord Howell, you’ve done right by reporting here. Now what are the next steps?”

The baron bowed his head in thought and then clasped his hands together. “Lord Howell, send one of your messengers to the Cassani levies. They’re outside the camp so they should be in good order. They’re to fall halfway back to the ford and take up a defensive formation to the north of the road.”

He turned to his own second. “Earl Custus, our division is ready to act as a reserve. Start moving them across the ford and form them up south of the Cassani. That gives the rest of the army something to fall back upon.”

“Retreating again?” Custus protested.

“The prince has sacked their camp and caused them a great deal of losses. Their right wing, with the best of their cavalry, is still in disorder. If we can bring the army back together then we’ve won the day but if they catch our right flank hanging open then they can still turn this around on us.”

“Well said.” Urien turned to Donal. “Have Prince Malcolm bring up my guards. Someone has to alert the men in the Torenthi camp to fall back and we’ve the most rested horses.”

Donal bowed and ran for the paddock. The fact it was the truth wouldn’t make it any less dangerous.

Malcolm was waiting, sitting with some of the younger knights. His tonsure was growing out and from the friendly banter going on, Donal suspected the young prince was perhaps finding in himself a new vocation rather than the church. He hoped so. “Mount up the men,” he called. “The king needs us.”

“What’s gone wrong now?” The prince scrambled up, tossing aside the apple he’d been eating.

“I’ll explain on the way. Take the banner –“ At least carrying that, Malcolm would have some reason to avoid getting into the worst of the fighting “- while I fetch your father’s horse.”

It took the help of another knight to uncase the banner but Malcolm was holding it ready before Donal returned astride his horse and holding the reins of one of the King’s warhorses, this one a grey part of a line descended by the matched pair of mares that had been part of Queen Jaroni’s dowry thirty-seven years ago.

“The Torenthi column that marched south turned back faster than expected,” Donal explained at an imperious look from the prince as they cantered back towards the king’s position. He could see grooms bringing forward horses for the Archbishops and a score of ecclesiastical knights were forming up to join them, which was a more welcome addition to their number than the clerics. “The right wing’s in danger and no one can find Cinhil to warn him.”

Malcolm nodded. “We’re going to take the reserves and hold them back?”

“The army’s falling back on the reserves. We’re going out there to recall the soldiers fighting in the Torenthi camp.”

“It’s less glorious but it’s not as likely to get us killed.” He felt a brush against his shields and frowned. It felt familiar… *Anscom?*

*Yes. We’ve not heard from you since I left Valoret.*

*This really isn’t the time. Try contacting me tonight.*

*We tried last night and you were too sound asleep,* the old priest protested.

Donal sent an impression of the previous day’s chaos. *Battles are tiring, Anscom.*

“Are you listening to me?” Malcolm snapped.

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I wasn’t.” *Anscom, go away!* He brought his shields up. “Your brother isn’t the only one missing right now.”

“My brothers, you mean. Jaron’s out there with Earl Euan’s mounted men at arms.”

“You’re right. My apologies.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Anyway, that’s not what was distracting you… you were doing something.”

Donal leant towards him. “Something best not discussed right now, your highness.”

“A secret, in other words.”

“Something best discussed in private. If you want to know then remind me later and I’ll tell you.”

The prince eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”

Donal crossed himself. “You have my oath, Your Highness.”

.o0o.

Piran swore as he saw a Haldane squire’s horse go down trying to pick its way between two tents. One leg caught in the multitude of ropes holding the tents up and there was a nasty crack as the horse fell.

Running closer he saw that the lad had flung himself clear in time. “What were you thinking!?” he demanded and only then saw that the burgundy-dyed britches and boots visible below the steel and leather brigandine were too well made for just another squire.

“I thought he could make it!” The young face below the arming cap was that of Jaron Haldane, a prickle of tears evident. “I had to hurry!” Reluctantly he drew a long dirk and went to the stricken horse’s throat.

Piran watched him do the necessary deed before asking: “And the hurry, Your Highness.”

“Sir Piran? Oh thank god. Have you seen Cinhil? The Torenthi have rallied, they’re pushing into the camp from the south and cutting the church levies apart.”

Grabbing the boy’s shoulder, Piran pulled him after him, uttering some oaths that might be an education to the thirteen year old. “I haven’t see him but I saw Duke Tambert’s standard a moment ago. He’ll need to know this and he might know where your brother is.”

Crossing between another row of tents; they spotted the banner beyond a sizeable pavilion. Piran jammed a hand over the prince’s mouth a moment before the boy exclaimed because an armoured man was furtively entering the pavilion and he wasn’t wearing the colours of any Gwynedd contingent the knight recognised.

By a miracle the man had been looking inside and he let the tent flap drop behind him without looking back. Piran and Jaron exchanged looks and crept forwards to the tent. There was no sound of voices from within and Piran was about to carefully look inside when there was a sudden ripping noise from the far side of the tent.

“Medras! Medras!” came a wolf-like cry and there were shouts of alarm and pain from beyond the tent.

Piran and Jaron burst into the tent, swords bared and voices raised in their own warcries. “A Haldane!” “Carthane forever!”

Within they saw the rear of the tent had been slashed in and the man they’d seen was just one of at least a dozen piling out into battle with those outside the tent.

Intent upon their ambush, only one of the Torenthi paid attention to the words from behind. He whirled and his sword crashed against Jaron’s.

Piran cut down one of the men and would have gone to the prince’s aid only to see him coldly force the man’s sword aside and slash ruthlessly for the throat with his dirk. The knight turned back to his own work and hamstrung another of the Torenthi before they truly grasped they were under attack from behind.

“Who are you?” demanded an angry knight in Cassani blue and white as the three surviving attackers backed upon each other, swords out and faces paling as other knights surrounded them and they realised there was no escape.

Piran pointed his sword at the knot of Torenthi. “Sir Piran ap Coran and a Haldane squire.” Which was true without advertising Jaron’s actual identity. “I don’t know who they are.”

“I am the Count of Medras,” one of the Torenthi offered. “I would be worth a considerable ransom.”

“I’ll ransom you!” The Cassani knight threw himself forward and his sword forced the Count back. One of the other Torenthi struck back and red soaked the knight’s sword arm but it was the last blow he struck before more knights closed in and the Torenthi were cut down in a welter of blood.

Jaron gaped and then shook his head. “That man was seeking quarter!”

“No quarter for a sneaking assassin like that,” snarled the Cassani knight. “He’s shed better blood than he boasted of and did so like a sneak thief in the night.” He gestured to one side, beneath the Cassan banner that still flew above the carnage.

There, a surprised look on his face, lay Duke Tambert, blood pooling beneath his body.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

 _For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against spiritual weakness in high places._  
Ephesians 6:12

Tambert FitzArthur-Quinnell, Duke of Cassan, High Chancellor Gwynedd and commander of a quarter of the Gwynedd Royal Army was dead.

It couldn’t, Piran thought, have really happened at a worse time.

“Where’s his second?”

“Sir Allen was with the Cassani pikes.” Sir Llewell, the Duke’s aide, gritted his teeth as Jaron wrapped his wounded arm with bandage and tied it off. The man wouldn’t be wielding a sword with that arm for a while. “We haven’t heard from him since we entered the camp.”

“And since he’s not here,” Piran asked patiently. “Who takes over?”

“The Duke’s not even stopped bleeding!” spat Llewell. “Have you no shame, man?”

“Tell them.”

Jaron nodded. “The Torenthi have reinforcements and the right wing’s collapsing. No one knows where Cinhil is.”

“We don’t have time for your grief.” Piran looked around. “In the absence of Sir Allen, I think we can safely say that Prince Jaron takes precedence over everyone here.”

“He’s but a boy!” Llewell studied his bandaged arm and then the startled squire.

“He’s third in line to the throne. That cuts through any questions of precedence. And there’s no time for arguments.”

Llewell looked at Tambert’s body and slumped. “You’re… not wrong. What are your orders, sir?”

Jaron glanced at Piran and then squared his shoulders. “Sir Llewell, take four men and carry the Duke back to our camp. Everyone else, spread out northwards and order every one of our soldiers you come across to rally to…” He lifted the Cassani banner from where the pole had been thrust into the ground. “Rally to me under the Duke’s banner. I’ll be west of the camp.”

“May I suggest you keep a few men with you to get you started,” suggested Piran mildly. “We’ve just seen what can happen if someone’s caught off guard here.”

“Good thinking. Find me an escort, Sir Piran. I’ll stay with Sir Llewell’s men for now.”

Piran bowed. “Of course, Your Highness.”

.o0o.

“There’s the Haldane!”

Sean-Seamus words dragged Vasco’s attention to the left and he saw a familiar dark head of hair – unhelmed for no good reason – above the line of one of the tents, followed by at least a score of knights and men-at-arms. Dragging his horse’s head around, the knight spurred his horse into a reckless gallop around the tents to join his lord’s side.

“Vasco!” Cinhil laughed in what seemed to be relief as he saw them. “I thought I might have lost you for good there.”

“It could’ve gone that way, Your Highness. I’m just as glad it didn’t.”

The prince nodded. “We need to rally the men and push on. We’ve forced Kyprian out of the camp but –“

“Sir, I believe things have gone poorly on the right flank and the men are scattered all over the camp. If Kyprian launches a counter-attack right now this could turn into a debacle.”

“He’s certainly forming up for one.” Cinhil rubbed his face. “I didn’t consider what fighting inside the camp would mean.” He looked around. “Alright. We need to find out what’s happened to the right flank.” He turned to the knight behind him. “Arthur, ride back to the men we left at the edge of the camp. Have them comb through the camp east to west and gather up all of our men they found outside the western edge of the Torenthi camp.”

An evil look crossed Sean-Seamus’ face. “Ye might find it hard to stop them looting,” he warned. “Best have them fire the camp as they go.”

Cinhil gave him a shocked look.

“Even a damned fool knows tha’ for a sign tae stop looting,” the borderman told him insouciantly.

Vasco nodded reluctantly. “He’s right, sir. We can’t hold the camp but we can deny it to Kyprian. Without the supplies here, he’ll have to pull back.”

The prince studied the two of them and then glanced upwards at the sky before ordering: “Sir Arthur, have the men put the camp to the torch as they sweep through it.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

Cinhil nodded and watched the knight ride away for a moment. “Very well, gentlemen, let’s see what state the right wing is in. Sir Sean-Seamus, can you lead us out of the camp?

“I’m nae a knight, sair, but I kin do that.”

“That’ll be good enough for now.” Cinhil rode up next to Vasco as the short highlander led them through the morass of tents.

With a memory honed by navigating the hills and glens of the highlands, Sean-Seamus brought them swiftly out from among the tents, lean-tos and horse-stands to the same muddy field where they’d broken the initial stand of the Torenthi.

“There are enemy banners to the south,” Vasco observed almost immediately.

“And my father’s banner even closer.” Cinhil kicked his horse into a canter and overtook Sean-Seamus, approaching the royal banner which Vasco now saw was held by young Prince Malcolm.

“Cinhil!” The King’s face relaxed a measure as he saw his heir. “When even Kennet Howell couldn’t find you, we feared the worst.

“It’s my own fault for not realising we’d be out of touch inside the camp. Did Earl Danoc take charge?”

Urien nodded. “He has. His own division and the pikes of Cassan are forming a line halfway to the ford we can regroup upon.”

“A wise choice. I’ve sent word to my own men to fire the Torenthi’s camp and regroup here, but I’ve heard nothing from Euan and Tambert.”

“Euan’s horse are our only screening force to the south.”

“I see Tambert’s banner.” Malcolm pointed to where a familiar blue and white banner was just visible.

“He’s moving in the right direction then.” Cinhil observed, seeing the banner was plainly shifting westwards through the camp. “Father, can I leave you to tell Tambert to lead my horse and his own men back to Danoc’s line? I need to help Euan pull the right wing together.”

“Of course, son.”

“I’ll ride with you, if I may.” The Archbishop of Rhemuth turned his horse away from the King’s party. “The ecclesiastical levies are amongst those in disarray.”

“You’re welcome at my side, Marcus,” Cinhil agreed. “And you also Bishop Leontius,” he added as the gentle Bishop of Dhassa followed his superior, accompanied by a several ecclesiastical knights.

“I hope my prayers carried some weight yesterday.” Leontius crossed himself. “Today they may recall our people to their duties.”

Sean-Seamus made a clucking sound deep in his throat. “Should ye nae wear some armour at least, Yer Grace?”

“I am armoured by God’s hand, Sir Knight.”

“Why does everyone think I’m a knight?” Sean-Seamus muttered to Vasco as they rode south.

“It’s your noble demeanor,” Vasco replied drily. “Perhaps King Urien should knight you. You’ve served him as well as most can claim over the last few weeks and it’d avoid confusion.”

“I dun think th’ borders a’ ready fer a Sir Sean-Seamus MacArdry.”

“When we’re done here there’ll likely be another campaign in the west. I doubt King Urien means to let the Mearan’s remain allied to Torenth, with the way it’s made trouble for us this year. Unless Prince Jolyon’s heir renounces the alliance, the borders may have changed by the time we’re done there.”

.o0o.

Euan de Cynfyn was in no state to express relief at the arrival of Prince Cinhil. He was only held in the saddle by Faustin MacArt’s right hand on his shoulder and the bishop’s left hand gripped his own reins and the Earl’s. Two arrows had punched through his mail below the ribs and the fighting men there knew how ill that bode. Though he must have been in agony, Euan said nothing and his helm was dented above one temple.

“He took a blow to the head before I could get to him,” the militant bishop growled. “I don’t know what damage that did but he was in no state to guard himself with what the horse-archers had already done.”

“Are you in charge here?”

“As much as I can be, yes.” MacArt nodded to the circle of Lendour and Carthmoor men around them, interspersed here and there with the church’s levymen. “I can’t say what’s happening in the camp though. The Festil’s cavalry have been harrying us since the Earl fell but I think their main effort is against the rest of the right wing.”

“You’ve done well to keep your men together,” Cinhil assured him. “We’re regrouping the army on the Earl of Danoc’s men east of the ford. Take these men back to join them. Euan needs the help of our surgeons if he’s to have a fighting chance.”

“What about the men still in the camp?”

“They’re my responsibility now, Bishop.”

“With respect, Your Highness, the entire army is your responsibility.” Vasco grimaced as Cinhil glared at him. “We’ve had too many difficulties with you out of reach in the Torenthi’s camp already. There are any number of knights here you can send to withdraw the remaining men of the right wing. You’re the one man we can’t afford to lose in there.”

Help came from an unexpected quarter. “Sir Vasco is right, Your Highness.” Marcus des Varreaux held up his hand. “For the most part the men in the camp are the levies raised by myself and my fellow bishops. They are our responsibility and we will see to them. You should accompany Father MacArt and his command back to the rest of the army.”

Cinhil slumped in his saddle. “I am well reproved,” he admitted. “Very well, Your Excellency. But take a dozen of my lancers with you. There are many of our enemies still in the camp and you may need their protection.”

.o0o.

Arkady woke to see the sky darkening above him. For a moment he couldn’t understand where he was or why he had been sleeping away the day but even as he felt the aches and pains resulting from hard fighting the memories flooded back.

“Nikola!”

“My lord.” Árpád dropped to one side. “Don’t try to rise. You almost caused your own death trying to hold Prince Nikola back from God’s hands.”

“Then he is dead.”

“He is among the angels of God, Your Highness. You know you will see him again when the Almighty gathers you too to his side. But he would not want you to hasten the day.”

“God is cruel to take him from this world so soon. It should have been me, Árpád. It should have been me who died. The axe was meant for me.”

“Your Highness, had you perished your brother would have forever blamed himself for not saving you. But God the all-wise must yet have plans for you in this world.”

Árpád offered him a cup and held Arkady’s head as he sipped from it. The contents were sour – strong spirits of some kind cut with the juice of lemons – and the prince grimaced but he drank it to the dregs. “Our men?”

“We rally, your Highness. Some seven hundred horse and almost a thousand of our foot. Your father rallied his own men beyond the camp and King Marek’s column returned to turn the tide.”

“And the Haldane?”

“His army holds both sides of the ford now and with the camp burned we have lost much of our supplies. Your father has ordered that we stand firm for now and the Haldanes seem to have no interest in attacking again.”

“That’s sensible of him.”

“Your father or the Haldane?”

“Both of them. We know the young Haldane’s quality now as a general and he’s shrewd. Without our supplies we’ll have to retreat east – he’s nothing to gain pressing on. Nor would we accomplish anything with our forces in order.”

Arkady rubbed his face. “I expect there’ll be a conference of father’s captains for me to attend.”

“He’s sent no word.”

“Has anyone told him about Nikola yet?”

“I sent word and he ordered your brother’s body be brought before him.”

The prince scowled. “Aye. Then I should go too.”

“You’re in no state to ride.”

“I’ll walk if I have to, Árpád. If father will lay Nikola’s body before the lords of Torenth then I shall be there for him.”

Árpád reached over and touched his fingers to Arkady’s temples. It shocked the prince to find his shields unsteady against even such a light touch but his captain’s mind touched his own only gently. “Very well, Your Highness. I’ll arrange a litter to carry you though, and food first. You’ll need the grounding if you’re to face your father without more rest.”

.o0o.

“Why did you let them go alone!?” demanded John of Benevent angrily. “What prince are you to leave two of my bishops unguarded in the clamour of battle?”

“They had their own knights and a number of my lancers with them too.” Cinhil folded his arms and his dark eyes locked on those of the Archbishop. “And it was their choice to enter the camp not mine. I would have ridden there had they not forbidden it!”

“Did two priestly men overpower you then?”

“That is enough!” thundered Urien. “Grief and fear have enough reign over our camp without two of the finest men in Gwynedd tearing at each other like dogs.”

Prince and Archbishop fell silent, still each directly angry looks at each other.

Vasco stepped between them. “Your excellency, all agreed that the commander of the Royal Army should not be risked again by seeking to rally those of your levies within the camp. Only the Prince felt he could be hazarded so and had reason not swayed him I feared greatly that I might have to force him to abandon that course.”

“And yet Marcus and Leontius could go with not a word from you, Sir Knight?”

Vasco bowed his head. “To lay hands upon my lord would shame me, my lord Archbishop. But to lay these blood-stained hands upon godly men would be to damn myself, would it not?”

John studied Vasco for a long moment. “I doubt the Torenthi had similar qualms, Sir Vasco. But perhaps you are right. And I must confess I think you would have been hard-pressed to restrain your prince alone.”

“He’d hae nae been alone,” came a mumble in a borderer’s accent.

Eyes flicked to Sean-Seamus who scowled defensively.

John sighed. “Forgive me, Your Highness. My anger is not truly with you and it was unworthy of me to blame you. Marcus would have his way and I wish only now that Leontius had restrained him as your own loyal retainers would have done you.”

“Indeed.” Cinhil bowed his head. “We can perhaps hope that they still live. Their rank and station may convince King Kyprian that they have some value to him alive.”

The king placed one hand on his son’s shoulder. “There are many of our men whose fate we do not know, Archbishop. Your prayers, along with those of Bishops MacArt and d’Aphienne, for all those men including your own episcopal brothers would be greatly appreciated.”

John bowed his head. “We have a great many to pray for, Sire. But we shall forget none of them.”

“Speaking of those losses,” offered the Earl of Danoc. “We’ve a rough count of the men now. The fit to fight at least. We’ve no clear count of the wounded, dead and missing so far.”

“Tell me.”

Gillis nodded obediently to the prince. “My own division and Duke Keene’s are unscathed of course and we’ve more than nineteen hundred men each – there are enough lightly wounded to bring that back over four thousand in total in a few days.”

“Duke Tresham’s Cassani took very few losses, but there were more than two hundred dead among the other levies of his division. Sir Allen has them well in order but he’s asked to retain Prince Jaron as his second.”

“Jaron’s not even fourteen yet!” protested Urien.

“He managed to extricate quite a number of men from the camp though,” pointed out Danoc. “The men respect him.”

Cinhil shook his head. “I don’t see any harm in leaving him with Sir Allen but we can’t place the responsibility to be second for almost fifteen hundred men on his shoulders.”

“May I suggest Sir Piran ap Coran?” offered Godwyn. “I attached him to the Duke’s division after he was dismounted this morning and he gets on well with Prince Jaron. God knows, Piran’s distinguished himself well enough already.”

“He’s still quite young.”

“You trusted me with a squadron, Sire,” Godwyn reminded Cinhil. “And Sir Piran’s a year or two older than I am.”

“You make a good point. Very well, Sir Piran it is.” Cinhil looked at Gillis. “And now the Earl of Lendour’s division.”

“The Earl’s division suffered at least half our overall losses, Your Highness. Barely a third of the church levies from two days ago remain. In addition, Bishop MacArt is unquestionably valiant but he’s not a military man. My recommendation is to disband the division. Spreading the best of the men from the church’s levies between my division and Duke Keene’s will make good some of our losses while Sir Allen adding the Carthmoor and Lendour men to his will bring him to roughly the same numbers. The rest of the Church’s levies can be put to work helping tending to our wounded and any of a thousand and one other jobs around the camp.”

“I see.” Cinhil considered and then nodded. “Very well then, we’ll do as you advise. Combined with the remaining Haldane Lancers, that leaves us around seven thousand men and at least we’re in control of the ford. I don’t think we can leave our men on the east bank overnight though.”

“If we move Kennet’s pickets forward I can reinforce them from my men,” offered Keene MacEwan. “They’re all rested and keeping a presence on the east bank puts a little more pressure on Kyprian’s army.”

Looking around the improvised council, Cinhil nodded. “Alright. But have everyone ready at dawn. As soon after that as possible I want our men formed up for battle on the east bank. I’m not necessarily going to offer battle but if we look ready and Kyprian’s still picking up the pieces then he’s more likely to consider retreating to more favourable ground.”

“Sir Allen will need somewhere to encamp his men,” warned Danoc.

“He can take over our camp,” offered Godwyn sourly. “It was set up for a thousand heavy horse and we’ve not even half that many left. I can move over into the encampment of the ecclesiastical levies – their own losses will leave space.”

“Alright, but be careful not to spark a riot. I don’t want fighting over space within the camp.”

Godwyn nodded. “I’ll talk to Bishop MacArt then.”

“That would be best.” Cinhil glanced around. “Alright. There’s a lot to do before the sun sets so… tomorrow’s order of battle will have Danoc’s division in the centre, MacEwan’s on the right and Fitz-Osberne’s to the left. Cross the river in that order and Earl Godwyn will have the heavy horse as a reserve on this side of the ford. I’ll stay with him to begin with but I promise not to get drawn forward and out of contact again if we do come to battle.

.o0o.

Kyprian embraced Arkady fiercely when he saw his son. “Some reports said you and Nikola had both fallen.”

“It came closer than I liked.” Arkady returned the embrace. “Nikola saved my life.”

“Your wing fought bravely. I wish I could say the same for the captains of the centre. They failed me for the last time. Those without the dignity to at least stand and die against the Haldane will pay the price for that at dawn.”

“That seems overly hasty.” The prince shook his head. “We’ve enough dead already.”

“The men need to know that even the highest of their officers will be held to account for failing them.” The king shook his head. “I have made my decision, Arkady. Duke Kamien and Count Maurin have done well and the Patriarch can lead the levies from the lands of our Holy and Apostolic Church.”

“As you would have it, father. I see the camp has suffered.”

His father’s jaw tightened. “Even my own tents pillaged by those thieving Gwynedd men. Our royal cousin Marek has surrendered his own tents to me – an act of kingly generosity on his part, for his column contributed greatly to driving the Haldane’s lackeys off.”

“For once we should be glad he’s so sparing of his troops on the march. Had he gone further south…”

“Making a virtue of his vice.” Kyprian released Arkady. “Come. Your brother has been laid out to rest and then we must confer to decide upon our plans for the morrow.”

The new camp had been laid out south-east of the old one and with few exceptions the tents in the central portion belonged to the contingents from Tolan and other parts of Torenth that were strongly allied with Marek and House Furstán-Festil: Tigre, Jandrich and lesser northern domains, but also a sprinkling of Kyprian’s southern vassals. The houses that ruled the latter had taken fewer losses from the northern wars and many younger sons were swayed by the chance to improve their fortunes through service to Marek.

The last two days had depleted those once replete bloodlines but still Marek was surrounded by his partisans in his father’s tents while Kyprian’s own closer allies now found themselves camped further from their king.

Nikola lay in state, a fresh surcoat having been found from somewhere, the arms of Arkadia quartered by the hart of Furstán. With the wounds covered only the ivory-like hue of his skin gave away that he couldn’t arise at any moment to wield the sword his pale fingers held against his breast.

“He was the best and most noble of us,” Arkady murmured, crossing to stand over his brother.

“All who knew him would agree with you.” While his father stood in black at his side, Marek Festil had only donned a cloak of black wool over the blue and white he preferred. “Nikola has hallowed this land with his blood. When the war is won I shall build a church here in his name, that all who pass by shall know the great debt the Kings of Gwynedd owe to the House of Furstán.”

“Build your church.” Arkady’s voice dropped to near a whisper. “But Nikola shall not lie here on foreign soil. His lancers, those who remain, have sought my permission to carry him back across the Rheljans and then to Torenthály where he may forever rest among his ancestors. I have granted that request and should any man gainsay me - yea, even you cousin - then I swear by the great Phourstanos I shall forever count them as my enemy.”

“Calm yourself, my son” Kyprian stepped forwards as colour rose in Marek’s cheeks. “All will be as you have both said. Nikola’s body shall be entombed at Torenthály and his church shall stand upon this bloodied field. Now embrace each other as cousins should.”

Marek swept forwards and the two gripped each other by the shoulder. “Pray let us sit,” Marek suggested, indicating his father’s tent. “You press yourself too hard, cousin.”

Satisfied he’d won his point over Nikola, Arkady let himself be drawn into the tent and seated upon a camp-stool next to his father. Duke Imre stepped closer and murmured condolences Arkady barely heard before bowing formally to Kyprian.

“My lord King, the loss of supplies today during the burning of our camp is a most telling blow against us. The Haldane has placed us in a position where we cannot reasonably press deeper into Gwynedd for now. Nonetheless we’ve savaged his own army and many of his lords have fallen.”

“Within perhaps two days, the army must move closer to Cardosa, from which we can receive fresh supplies and reinforcements. It must be presumed that the Haldanes are aware of this and will consider that they hold an advantage, and yet we also know that Urien Haldane and all his living sons are with the army.”

“What are you proposing?” asked Count Maurin. “That we launch another attack?”

“Subject to some refinements, yes.” Imre spread his hands. “We have more than six thousand men still hale and fit to fight and supplies sufficient to delay our withdrawal by a day. Shatter the Haldane’s field army here, slay the Haldane or at least some of his sons and we’ll leave Gwynedd hamstrung for the rest of the summer at least.”

“One last roll of the dice, to win or lose it all?” suggested Arkady. “After all, if all four Haldanes of the immediate royal family are here, so too are the only men of the Festil’s senior line – the only men at all since the junior lines have only daughters at this time.”

“I would not be here,” Marek proclaimed, “Were I not willing to put everything I have and everything I am at risk to see the usurping descendants of a forsworn priest removed from Gwynedd’s line.”

Arkady’s lips curled. If the first Cinhil Haldane had sinned in being absolved of his priest’s vows to assume the throne of Gwynedd, the same could equally be said of another, earlier king of Gwynedd. Marek and his house claimed Gwynedd by their rights as senior descendants of Blaine Furstán-Festil, the fourth Festillic King of Gwynedd – but Blaine himself had been absolved not only of a priest’s vows but of those of an archbishop before he replaced his decadent and childless elder brother as heir to Festil III.

But the comparison died before he could voice it, for Nikola was not there to be confided in.

“And while chances there are, we can strike one telling blow tonight,” Marek continued. “The tragic death of Duke Ygor yesterday proved beyond doubt that the Haldanes possess some arcane power and we’ve long suspected a cabal of Deryni acting to empower them. One of that cabal we’ve known the identity of for some time and last night I ordered that they be taken, no matter the cost and interrogated for all information they could provide upon the Haldane power.”

“Meaning you no longer have any leads from which to investigate this council?”

Marek shrugged. “A necessary risk – the Haldane matter takes precedence in my eyes. There was some hope that our prisoner could be induced to identify the rest of the conspirators but alas powerful geas were set to protect them. There were none such to protect knowledge of the Haldanes however and we can now confirm that not only is Urien Haldane gifted with certain capabilities, but that one of his sons has been prepared for similar initiation.”

“I fail to see how this is good news,” grunted Kyprian.

“Ah, but my uncle, the prince so prepared is not the elder prince. Cinhil Haldane, the general of the army we face, has no arcane protection at all. And that, my lord, gives us the opportunity to strike tomorrow at an army that has lost its commander.”

There were some in-takes of breath at the audacity of the proposal. King Kyprian was not among those who reacted thusly. “Are you proposing an assassin be sent into the enemy ranks?”

“Not at all, your majesty. Cinhil Haldane can be killed from here. This very tent if you so desire. Or perhaps worse than killed, for death alone would be small repayment for the deaths forty years ago of your family and mine.” Imre placed his hands together as if in prayer, touching his fingertips against his chin. “To reach out across some miles and touch a man you’ve never met may seem unfeasible, my lord Kyprian. But we have at our disposal tools that make it entirely feasible: two men well acquainted with Cinhil Haldane, men from whom every iota of energy may be stripped ruthlessly and turned to this purpose.”

No one spoke within the tent. Arkady doubted if any even took a deep breath.

He could almost see the moment when temptation tipped the balance for his father. “Tell me more.”

Imre gestured sharply and guards brought forth a pair of men, hands bound and stripped to their undergarments. “Permit me to introduce you to their eminences, the Archbishop of Rhemuth and the Prince-Bishop of Dhassa. Senior members of the Gwynedder’s church - and thus not only rebels against my son but also complicit in the deaths of many of our fellow Deryni by burning them at the stake.”

The duke spread his hands. “Through their memories of the Haldane I’m confident that I can reach out and touch his mind despite my own lack of familiarity. To reach out thus would usually require the support and strength of others to bolster my efforts but it would be unthinkable to exhaust our officers so on the night before they must command in battle. But here we have two men whose survival is of no consequence at all – for if they live to see the dawn I believe my son means to see them meet the fate they’ve condemned so many Deryni to in the past.”

“And I will, whether they see the dawn or not. I’d rather burn them alive but the bodies will do.” Marek stood from his stool and dropped to one knee before Kyprian. “All this is within my grasp and my father’s, King Kyprian. But you have been our patron and our shield these many years. You have lost a father, a brother and now a son – all martyrs to freeing Gwynedd from the Haldanes. And thus we humbly offer this gift to you: the opportunity to slay Cinhil Haldane or even to destroy his mind, leaving him nothing more than a worthless husk.”


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

 _O LORD God, to whom vengeance belongeth; O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, shew thyself._  
Psalms 94:1

With the king’s permission, Donal had spread his pallet out in a corner of the royal bedchamber and he’d foregone supper to avoid the grounding effect that being fed can have upon a person. Instead he finished cleaning his boots and then those of the three Haldanes while he waited for the expected contact.

He was just about to see if there were any other mind-numbing chores to take care of when he felt the expected flicker of contact.

Quietly he stretched out upon the pallet and brought his shields down far enough to identify those making contact. When he was certain it was his fellow Councillors, their combined mental efforts magnified by the great shiral crystal that hung above their gathering place, he lowered them further.

*My apologies that I couldn’t converse with you earlier. I’m sure Judicael and Walther understand my reasons though.*

*The time may come when you may need to decide between your various loyalties,* warned Anscom. *But that doesn’t matter now. We have a small crisis on our hands.*

Donal tried to grasp their meaning and then realised that he was short one member of the council. *Is something wrong with Bethwyn?*

*That remains to be seen.* Judicael’s mental tone was concerned. *She went back to her home after our gathering earlier and hasn’t returned. Nor have we been able to contact her through our normal methods.* Which would be anything but normal by any but Deryni standards.

*Out of your contact or simply not replying?*

*The former. Which leaves regrettably few possibilities. Ebor’s volunteered to visit her home by Transfer Portal as soon as we’re done here, but for now it could mean the worst.*

*The worst I can imagine, Judicael, would be for her to be an active traitor who’s subverted the oaths of office we all accept. I don’t believe that of Bethwyn,* Camille observed somewhat peevishly. *Although on a personal level, I fear she’s either in very grave danger – or beyond all mortal danger already.*

*The latter was rather more my concern.* Judicael touched Donal’s a little more deeply than the others for a moment. *You seem to be healthy enough so I hope you have better news on your own front.*

*We’re near the Schilling ford over the Falling Water. The army have taken to calling it the ‘Killingford’ which should say much about how savage the fighting is.*

*As you’re alive I take it it’s not going against the Haldanes.*

*They’re all alive so far. There was a nasty moment yesterday when King Urien and Duke Tresham were attacked with magic by one of the Torenthi. Fortunately it was over quickly and the notion that it was God’s intervention is holding up. Unfortunately Tresham didn’t survive.*

*Losing a senior commander would definitely count as unfortunate.*

*It’s more than one commander, Judicael. Around a third of the army is dead or wounded and the only senior commanders left beside Prince Cinhil are Tresham’s younger son Keene MacEwan and Baron Danoc – he’s been elevated to Earl incidentally. Even the Episcopate’s been hit hard – the Archbishop of Rhemuth and Leontius of Dhassa are missing in today’s fighting, dead or captive we don’t know. The only good thing is that the Torenthi have been hit just as hard and the Prince’s men burned a lot of their supplies today.*

*Unfortunately I have more news, which may not be good.*

*What now, Walther?*

*The Corwyn levies are only a few miles south of you. Duke Jernian’s leading them and he’s keeping his cards very close to his chest. Not even his own son knows what he has in mind.*

*Oh in Christ’s name!* Donal contemplated the possibilities inherent in that – some beneficial to the Haldane cause and also of Gwynedd’s remaining Deryni, others much less so – aware that the Council had doubtless considered all these possibilities already. *Is there anything we can do to sway him?*

*Jernian’s stubborn.* Camille sounded sad. *His father Arion was open to reason – quite a number of Deryni managed to escape Gwynedd through his good offices – but he’s always been more wary of anyone infringing on his… freedom of action might be the best way of putting it, or perhaps autonomy. Cluim’s demands forty years ago struck at the root of that and any attempt on our part to approach him from a position of authority would likely cause precisely the reaction we don’t want.*

*What about his son?*

*Ah, Stiofan. I have hopes for that young man. But as long as Jernian clings to life, Stiofan de Corwyn won’t betray him. Fidelity runs deep in that one.*

*That suggests one solution.*

*Ebor!* Judicael sounded more shocked than surprised.

The Connaiti Deryni’s tone was truculent. *We were all thinking it.*

*Are we assassins now?*

*The other side don’t scruple – we all know Bethwyn’s probably dead and most likely mind-ripped for everything they could learn from her despite the geas that enforce our Council oaths! You tell me, Donal. How much would the Corwyn levies affect the situation there at this Killingford of yours?*

*That depends which side he came down upon. And I doubt Lord Stiofan would favour the murderers of his father.* Donal shook his head. *I understand your reasoning but it’s the first step down a slippery path and I’m not confident I could maintain my balance doing that.*

*I should certainly hope not.* Judicael’s presence faded for a second before returning to full strength. *We should end this now. Ebor has an investigation to carry out and Donal needs his rest.*

*I certainly can. Will you be able to keep an eye on Jernian?* he asked Walther.

*I’m working on that. One of the old portals at Caerrorie is intact – it’s safe enough, the old manor was abandoned years ago – and if I can borrow a horse from the current manor, well one man should be able to travel faster than a small army.*

Judicael prepared to break the link. *If it looks too dangerous, join Donal with the Haldane army, your cousin should be able to vouch for you.*

Donal couldn’t help but feel a momentary horror at the thought of Earl Euan and then shame that he hadn’t mentioned this already.

*What?* asked Walther.

*Earl Euan was seriously injured this afternoon. He isn’t expected to survive.*

.o0o.

Bootless, Vasco picked his way across the chamber towards where Cinhil was sleeping. Rather than crowd the one bed further (although Prince Jaron was sharing a tent elsewhere), the prince was lying on a pallet in the opposite corner from where Sir Donal slept. In deference to the possibility of another dawn attack, Cinhil wore a metal-studded brigandine beneath his blanket, which probably hadn’t done much to help him sleep easy. Doing the same had left Vasco with several sore spots where he’d shifted against the studs as he slept.

“Your Highness,” he murmured and shook the prince’s shoulder.

There was no response. He shook again and this time the prince rolled over slackly onto his back. His eyes were wide open and staring vacantly.

“Dear God!” Uncaring that his voice had risen, he checked for a pulse and was glad to find it was steady, if slow. “Your Highness!”

“What is it?” Malcolm sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Sir Vasco?”

Urien rolled over and opened his eyes. “Another dawn attack?”

“No. There’s something wrong with Prince Cinhil!”

Kicking back the blankets, Urien got out of the bed and dropped to one knee next to Vasco. “Cinhil? Wake up son.” He touched the prince’s brow and the vacant eyes widened sharply, but only for a second. The face, still lacking Cinhil’s usual intentness started to redden and his breathing shortened to gasps.

“He’s choking on his tongue!” exclaimed Vasco. He forced Cinhil’s jaw open and probed with two fingers, holding the tongue down.

Urien helped him roll Cinhil onto his side, where he was less likely to choke. “Malcolm! Wake Sir Donal!”

There was a rustle as the young man rushed to do so and a thump followed by an annoyed grunt that suggested the prince hadn’t tried to be gentle in his methods of rousing the other knight.

A moment later Donal rounded the bed wearing only shirt and britches. “What’s the matter?”

“He –“

Urien raised his hand to gesture for Vasco to let him explain. “Sir Vasco couldn’t rouse him. I tried to reach out to him but I couldn’t find anything.”

“Nothing? That’s impossible.” Donal gestured for the king to move aside and give him access. “As long as he’s alive…”

Vasco looked up hopefully at him. “He’s got a pulse.”

“That’s something.” The northern knight placed one hand on either side of the prince’s head and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and after a moment Vasco realised he and Cinhil were breathing in perfect unison.

“Is Cinhil… going to be alright?” Malcolm asked in a small voice.

Vasco looked at Donal and then at the young prince. “I hope so, Your Highness.”

“Sir Donal has far more experience of magic than I,” Urien added.

“This was magic? Couldn’t he just be ill?”

Vasco spread his hands. “Did he suffer a blow to the head yesterday? Those can be dangerous.”

“Wouldn’t you know? Weren’t you with him?”

“Not every moment of the day, Sire.”

Urien reached to smooth his son’s hair but drew back when he realised he might interfere with whatever Donal was doing.

At last Donal gasped violently and removed his hands from Cinhil’s head.

“What did you do? Is he alright?”

Donal drew his hands across his own face before answering Malcolm. “I didn’t do anything to your brother. Although I should have insisted he receive the same initiation we gave you at Valoret. Then he’d have at least had shields.”

“What are you saying?”

The Deryni met Urien’s gaze with deep sorrow. “Cinhil’s been mind-ripped.”

“Mind-ripped!”

“What… what does that mean?” asked Vasco.

“Almost exactly what it sounds like. But how could they have done it? We’re in the middle of a camp with guards all around us!”

“But you can fix this? You can make it right?”

“He can’t,” whispered Urien, his voice almost as hollow as Cinhil’s expression. “Cinhil’s mind is shattered. Even if we could stir him to some sort of consciousness, he’d be insane.”

“I wish to God I was wrong.” Donal leant forwards, weight on his hands. “How!? How could this have happened!?”

“How do we know you didn’t do this?” Malcolm darted backwards, pulling his sword from where it lay upon a chest. He drew it from the scabbard with a rasping noise. “You were in this room all night.”

“Put the sword down, Malcolm.” His father glanced briefly at the young prince, his heir now, Vasco realised with a sick feeling. “Sir Donal had nothing to gain by such an act.” He turned to the knight. “You understand that I have to be sure?”

“Do what you must.”

The king’s placed one hand on the Deryni’s head and then touched the other to his face. Donal inhaled sharply and Vasco saw his pupils dilate. Whatever was happening, Urien wasn’t being gentle.

A heartbeat and it was over. Urien nodded. “My apologies, Sir Donal.”

“You had to be sure,” agreed Donal. “Do you want to be sure, Prince Malcolm?”

Vasco felt sure he was no less confused. “You can do that?”

“No, I can’t. You know I only have the potential.”

“We haven’t broken our fast yet and the power lies ready within you. Your father or I can bring it out and then you too can put me to the test.”

Urien looked at Vasco. “Do we have time?”

“Not long, sire. I came to tell the prince that the Earl of Danoc is moving his men across the ford now. I suppose -” He fought back a sob. “I suppose I must tell him he’s in command now.”

The king opened a small casket and held up the Eye of Rom. “I was wrong to insist you have the potentials set against your wishes, Malcolm. But without them, you might be dead too. For all we know, Jaron might also be dead.”

“And whoever did this could know everything Cinhil did about the army’s strengths and weaknesses,” added Donal in thought. “Damn them!”

“We underestimated both their ability and their ruthlessness.” Urien met his son’s gaze. “I won’t force you on this but I recommend it.”

“What do we tell the army? Cinhil is well-loved.” Vasco spread his hands. “When he was at their head yesterday they smashed the Torenthi lines. Gillis Gillespie is respected but everyone knows he’s a cautious man.”

“And Cinhil knew him very well. Now the enemy do too, they’ll understand every move he makes. If they attack now…”

Donal’s words hung in the air, letting each of them conjure the image of the Gwynedd army – demoralised by having their leader struck down within his own tent and their every move predicted by the enemy commander – facing a frontal assault like the one that had struck them the first day at Killingford.

“You’ll have to take command yourself, Sire. They wouldn’t expect that.”

“What they wouldn’t expect would be Cinhil in place and ready to lead the army.” Urien reached down and closed Cinhil’s eyes. “Will he… his body… will it linger?”

“Some hours… perhaps even a few days… Whoever did this was thorough – usually ripping is short and savage, leaving the victim’s body in agony. He took his time though – probably didn’t want let anyone realise what was happening. He isn’t feeling any pain, that might let the body survive longer.”

“I’ll do it,” Malcolm whispered. “Show me how.” His pale eyes blazed. “And then I want to find the man who did this and destroy him the way he did Cinhil.”

His father handed him the Eye of Rom and went back to the casket to find the Crimson Lion. “Donal, can you manage a circle here?”

“We don’t have time for a full warding circle.” Donal returned to his own saddlebags. “I can manage something though.”

“Dice?” exclaimed Vasco when he saw what Donal produced.

The other knight shook his head. “The dots are decorative – it’s useful to have people think they’re only dice. These are Ward Cubes.” He laid them on the floor, sorting the four ivory dice against each other in the centre. “Clear away my pallet please. We don’t have much room to work with.”

Obediently Vasco moved Donal’s saddlebags to lie next to Cinhil and then rolled up the pallet and stacked the blankets on top of the saddlebags. He saw Donal place four ebony dice around the others, positioning them at the corners of the square he’d formed.

One at a time the Deryni touched the white dice, mouthing a word each time and somehow causing them to glow with an inner fire. Only when he stepped closer could Vasco tell that he was counting upwards in latin. As he touched the last of the white dice and murmured “Quarte” the four dice seemed to meld into a single white square.

Donal smiled and then gestured he should move back. “Quinte.” The first black dice also glowed, this time with a darkling light. One at time he lit each. “Sixte, Septime, Octave.”

“Is that the ward?” Malcolm, now wearing the Eye of Rom on his right ear looked at them with equal fascination to Vasco’s.

“Let him work,” chided Urien.

Donal lifted the first white cube, breaking the square he’d formed, and placed it – prime upon quinte – on top of a black cube. There was a muffled click as the two came into contact. “Primus!” the Deryni commanded and the pair took a uniform silvery glow.

Three more times he did this until there were four small pillars of light before him.

“Is that…?”

“The four quarters,” Donal confirmed. “It isn’t as formal as the wards we raised previously but we don’t have the time – or a consecrated priest – so this will serve. Hold a moment as I move them a little further apart and we can begin.”

Once the four little silvery lights had been moved to the four cardinal points of the little space did Donal move back and let Urien lead Malcolm through the gap between the northern and eastern pillars. “Primus, Secundus, Tertius, Quartus,” he repeated and then in a commanding voice: “Fiat Lux!”

Blue light flickered around them like a dome, sealing king, prince and Deryni away from the knight who guarded the door.

“Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be clean,” Urien prayed over his son. “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and joined his father. “He leadeth me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Donal added his voice and when he nodded reassuringly, from outside the dome Vasco joined the others in reciting the psalm, recognising how fitting it was with Cinhil lying dead in all but body behind them.

“For thou are with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

“Amen.”

Donal looked to Vasco and nodded to the door. Vasco returned the nod in understanding. It wouldn’t do for anyone to enter the room right now. Moving aside he placed one booted foot to block it from being swung open by any intruder.

He expected that Donal would take the lead now, but instead Malcom knelt before his father, placing his hands between the kings in fealty.

“Malcolm Congal Aidan Julian Haldane, thou art my beloved son and thou art mine heir.” Urien’s voice trembled at that admission of fact but his hands were steady. “Thou hast drunk from the cup of power and thy spirit has been prepared as a vessel of the kingship that is to come. With thou bear this power as a shield for thy people, as a sword against their enemies?”

“Volo.” I will.

“Wilt thou wield this power and all others with restraint, remembering always thou art the servant unto God in the protection of Gwynedd?”

“Volo.”

“Wilt thou pass on these charges and duties to your own sons, as I pass them now to you, to repay duty with respect, loyalty with honour and disgrace with just punishment?”

Once again the prince murmured his assent and Urien released his hands, unpinning the Crimson Lion from his shirt. “Reach out then and take your birthright from my open hands.”

Reverently Malcolm lifted the golden brooch only to falter as he felt its weight and the long golden pin. “Through my hand, as you did?”

“The power lies within your blood, passed down through five generations before you. But it takes more than blood to make a righteous king.” Urien knelt now and embraced Malcolm before shuffling as far back as he could within the confines of the Ward. “It requires courage of us too.”

Malcolm nodded in understanding. Rather than holding brooch in one hand as his father had he placed it upon the floor, pin upwards and brought his right hand down to rest upon it, the tip of the pin dimpling his flesh.

Then he forced his hand down and the golden pin skewered through the flesh, rising, bloodied, between his thumb and forefinger.

Vasco started as Malcolm cried out, head thrown back.

“What was that?” came a puzzled enquiry from beyond the door.

Leaning against the door, Vasco forced his voice towards neutrality. “Nothing to worry about.” He looked back to the small circle and saw Malcolm curled on the floor, Urien and Donal standing over him. If it wasn’t for his light hair, it might almost have seemed that it was Prince Cinhil was standing by the king – he and Donal were of a similar height although the Deryni’s shoulders weren’t quite as broad.

They waited - what else could be done? - and as he watched Vasco’s mind seized upon the image. Surely, were he able, Cinhil would be standing by his father under these circumstances. But that wasn’t possible now – he looked to the pallet at the other room where Cinhil lay. Everyone would be expecting the prince to be joining Earl Godwyn soon and…

With a gasp Malcolm relaxed at last and Urien gathered his son to him.

“Ex tenebris te vocavi, Dominie.” Donal extended his hands, palms downwards. “Te vocavi, et lucem dedisti. Nunc dimittis servum tuum secundum verbumttum in pace. Fiat voluntas tua. Amen.” As he commanded, the light faded from the pillars, leaving only four little stacks of two dice each.

“You can put him back to bed for the moment.” The Deryni sighed. “I could wake him but with the shocks he’s already had this morning, perhaps it would be best to give him what little rest we can leave him with.”

Urien nodded, placing Malcolm on top of the bedcovers. “I’d better break the news to Cinhil’s officers.”

“I don’t suppose…” Vasco shook his head. “No, forgive me, I’m being foolish.”

“What is it?”

“Well it wouldn’t convince the prince’s officers, but most of the men haven’t seen the prince all that closely and you said yourself, the last thing the Torenthi would expect would be for Cinhil to be right where he ought to be.”

“Are you suggesting we strap Cinhil into his armour and tie him to the saddle somehow?” exclaimed Donal. “That’s –“

“Not Cinhil.” Vasco smiled sadly. “I was thinking you’d probably fit his armour near enough and with his visor down…” He held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, it’s a foolish idea. We’d have to bring too many people in on it or you’d give yourself away every time Cinhil was asked for orders.”

“Not really feasible,” agreed Urien. “It’d certainly be a nasty surprise for the Torenthi though and it would give us the chance to break the news to the other officers at a better moment.”

Donal raked his fingers through his hair. “I… could probably pass myself off as Cinhil for a little while,” he admitted cautiously. “Not for long of course – I don’t know His Highness well enough to act like him towards everyone, but if it’s just a matter of his face and voice…”

“You can do that?”

“It isn’t easy – shapechanging’s considered esoteric even by most Deryni. Isn’t it something the Haldane powers inform you of?”

Urien shook his head slowly. “No, you’ve surprised me there. Perhaps we should go through exactly what Deryni can and can’t do at some time. It’s possible there are more gaps in my knowledge than I realised.”

“What makes you think that I know everything a Deryni can do? The purges didn’t just kill Deryni, you know. Entire libraries of our lore were burned and some families took magics they’d developed and never shared to their graves. However in this case that might pay off for us – it’s possible the Torenthi may not realise anyone could do something like this.” Donal turned to Urien. “Are you sure about this? It’s… not a dark magic as such but taking your son’s face without his consent is at least dubious.”

The king lowered his head in thought and then nodded. “I know what you said but we’d better wake Malcolm. He may not approve but he’d be justly concerned if he suddenly sees Cinhil up and around after all of this.”

.o0o.

To their surprise however, Malcolm was far from disapproving of the idea. “In a way, it gives Cinhil a chance to strike back from beyond the grave. We could even feign a wound of some kind later today to explain his death. God knows how the army would react if they learned some did this to him.”

He’d also suggested an addition to the scheme, with Donal changing not only his own face but Cinhil’s, ensuring no one entering the room would realise there were two Cinhils – one on the field and one lying incapacitated.

It gave Donal a strange feeling to look down and see his own face on the pallet, eyes vacant and uncomprehending. Seeing his expression – Cinhil’s expression, hopefully – Urien reached down and the body relaxed into sleep.

“Will it last?” he asked. “The spell I mean?”

“His own energies are sustaining it for now. It may mean he dies sooner but…” Donal shrugged uncomfortably.

“He could have died in battle yesterday or fighting the Mearans.” Urien looked older than his admittedly weighty years. “I’ve outlived so many of my children already. I thought Cinhil at least would be an exception.”

“I don’t suppose he confided any strategies for today?”

Malcolm helped Donal into Cinhil’s arming tunic and started lacing it closed. “You said the Torenthi will know everything that’s been discussed. It’s better we don’t prompt you with anything he – anything you had in mind, isn’t it, brother?” He yanked the straps tighter on the last word. “Sorry, it needs to be a bit tighter than… than it used to.”

“It’s fine.”

The door opened and Vasco returned with one of the royal pages. “William, this is Sir Donal.” He pointed at the pallet. “He must have taken a head wound we didn’t notice yesterday.”

“Shouldn’t he be moved over to the other wounded, sir?”

Urien shook his head. “Moving men with head wounds is a chancy business, young William. I don’t mind sharing my chamber with a man honourably injured in my service. There’s nothing much that can be done for him except wait, but it wouldn’t be right to leave him alone.”

William bowed, the movement showing a fresh scar with stitches behind his fringe. “I’ll be glad to watch over him while I tidy your rooms for you, Sire.”

Vasco took over helping Donal into Cinhil’s armour, sending Malcolm to assist William with Urien’s armour. Rather than risking the fit of plates around his chest, he instead helped him into mail and a sturdy jack of crimson-dyed leather over it with only greaves and vambraces.

“Take that as a reminder not to ride into the thick of things,” Urien cautioned Donal.

Donal recalled something Cinhil had said at one of the war councils. “I’ve learned my lesson from yesterday. I’ll stay where I can be found by messengers.” He shot a look at Vasco. “And where you can find me too, Vasco.”

“I’d be terribly grateful, Your Highness.”

The four of them – Urien and Vasco with plate around their vitals, Malcolm like his brother in mail and leathers – exited the house to find Earl Godwyn waiting with their mounts.

Donal had to remind himself not to offer the salute that would usually be Godwyn’s due. “Is everything well… cousin?”

“A heavy mist still, cousin.” Godwyn stroked the whiskers on his upper lip that couldn’t quite be called a moustache yet. “It’s unseasonable and Earl Gillis is concerned by pickets reporting much activity in the Torenthi camp.”

“They might be pulling out but let’s not count on that.” Donal walked towards Cinhil’s R’kassi stallion and the highly strung war horse threw its head up and side-stepped suspiciously.

Naturally it would be his horse that’s the first to get suspicious. The Deryni reached to the horse’s nose and patted it, offering the animal reassurances to sooth its ruffled sensibilities. It would be cause for immediate concern for the prince, one of the finest horsemen in Gwynedd, to be rejected by his own mount.

With the steed calmed he mounted and looked over at Godwyn. “Earl Gillis isn’t the only nervous one this morning and there may be good reason. It’s possible the Torenthi aren’t giving up just yet. Are all three divisions across the river?”

“Duke MacEwan’s were almost across. I expect Sir Ebor will be about to reach the ford.”

Cinhil nodded. “Send a fast rider and order him to hold this side of the ford with room for you to pass him.”

“Sir?”

“I’m changing our deployments – I want you on the left, not Sir Allen. And if the Torenthi are coming you’re to swing out left and work your way around their flank.”

“That’s risky if their cavalry’s as strong as it was yesterday,” Godwyn warned.

“You handled them roughly yesterday. I’ve every faith you can do the same today. If you’re cut off from the ford, keep working around them and head for the Lendour highlands.”

“The Lendours…? Your Highness…”

Donal nodded. “I trust you to act appropriately to anything you find there, Godwyn. You did Gwynedd and Carthane proud at Culdi, now do so again.”

Godwyn drew his sword and clashed it against his shield in salute. The riders with him did the same, a cacophony of support.

Donal waited until the Earl had turned away and then looked to Vasco. “Messengers to the Earl of Danoc and Duke of Claibourne, Sir Vasco. We’d better let them know I’ve changed the deployments and I want them to move back towards the river if the Torenthi do launch another attack. Sir Allen’s men can hold them at the river and the other two divisions will be facing the left flank of the advance.”


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

 _Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us._  
Romans 8:37

Arkady gave his father a dubious look. The working the previous night had raised his spirits, but it had also left him weary in body – too much so to take a commanding role. We’re quite a pair, the prince thought.

By default this left command of the assault to Marek and his intimates. The thought that this might have been the plan all along had crossed Arkady’s mind.

“With this mist we can’t tell if Gwynedd’s deployed as expected,” he warned. “Cinhil’s death could have changed their plans.”

“The command would have gone to the Earl of Danoc.” Kyprian looked confident. “He’s been complaining that Cinhil’s held back a reserve each day until now – the plan to commit their full force forward suits him better. It’s also the deployment everyone was informed of, he wouldn’t want to risk more confusion by changing the plan so soon.”

“Well if you’re right, it shouldn’t be long before Marek’s vanguard reaches the Cassani pikemen.”

“Eager for revenge?” Kyprian shook his head. “Breaking that wall is work for infantry, son. Your cavalry won’t be needed for that and your man Árpád knows what he’s about. Once the line’s broken they can take up the pursuit.”

They watched the mists in mutual silence and perhaps not entirely mutual thoughts (although each for their own reasons was impatient for the sun to burn away the shroud of concealment that lay over the battlefield) until the arrival of a courier alerted them to a change.

“My lord,” the man exclaimed. “King Marek reports a force of Haldane lancers has been encountered on the enemy’s left flank. He believes they may have caught the Gwynedders before they’re fully deployed and is pressing on towards the ford.”

“Excellent progress! No show of sloth today, by God!”

“It’s a promising first report,” Arkady conceded grudgingly. He raised one hand for the attention of his nearest aide. “Have Suleiman take his horse to probe the enemy right flank,” he ordered. “No heroics, just find their positions.”

“You suspect a trap?”

“In this mist, father, I suspect everything.”

.o0o.

One of Kennet’s riders bolted out of the mists and across the ford to where Donal, still in the guise of Cinhil, was engaged in desultory conversation with Sir Allen Fitz-Osberne and Jaron. The latter was particularly awkward between relief that whoever had attacked Cinhil last night hadn’t thought to also target the youngest Haldane prince and fear that Jaron was the most likely person outside their little conspiracy to recognise he was an imposter.

So far he thought he’d managed to leave them the impression that any oddity in his behaviour was down to concern at what might be happening across the river and hidden by the mist.

“The Torenthi are coming!” the rider called out. “Baron Danoc’s swinging his left flank back and away from them!”

“It seems your guess was right, Your Highness.” Sir Allen cupped his hands. “Forward to the water’s edge!”

“And bring the royal banners forwards!” shouted Urien. “Let the pretender’s men know they face the true King of Gwynedd.”

With cheers the Cassani pikemen moved forward, lowering their pikes while Sir Allen and Sir Piran brought the rest of their division around to the flanks. The mists finally began to give way and the brilliant crimson and golden banners of the Haldanes fluttered above the massed ranks.

The first Torenthi followed their own banners forward and barely seemed to slow at the sight of the mass of men facing them across the river. A gust of wind blew back the mist at last and a cluster of knights was revealed beneath the Pretender’s banner. To Donal’s satisfaction, the sight of fingers pointing at the banner behind him – the lion and three pointed differencing of a firstborn son – suggested they were suitably taken aback by the apparent presence of Cinhil.

“A Haldane!” he called out, riding further forward to improve their view.

The water foamed as the Torenthi foot splashed into the ford and then they met the eager pike-heads and the charge came to an abrupt halt as they tried, on the slippery stones, to battle past the long and deadly weapons to get at the men behind.

“Archers!” Donal ordered sharply and wished for a moment he was carrying a bow himself.

There were good archers from the Purple March though, and both Carthmoor and Lendour had their share too. Their volleys arched up and over the river, falling not among those pressing against the pikes but on the ranks moving up behind them.

The pike wall wasn’t long enough to cover the whole ford though – the Schilling ford was just too wide – and thus the flanks were bulked up by other footmen. Here the attack managed to spill around the pikes and close into deadly combat.

Bloody men fell and angry men swore and cursed.

Donal was almost one of them, but he restrained himself as it would be unprincely. Instead he studied the banners and faces.

The Pretender’s banner was accompanied by a second, similar banner. One with the same three pointed differencing as Cinhil’s banner. Marek and his eldest son then. And behind them among other ducal banners was the lion’s paw of Tolan.

The Torenthi wavered – not near to breaking but their initial momentum wasn’t carrying them further across the ford.

“Imposter!” A shout went up from across the ford and Donal saw a young knight forcing himself forward through the ranks towards the men in front of him. The knight pointed his sword at Donal. “The young Haldane is dead, that’s a fraud wearing his armour!”

Eyes searching the enemy ranks for archers, Donal tore off his helm. “He lies!” he cried out. “Look at my face, Torenthi and know your assassins have failed.”

An arrow plunged towards him but he was prepared and with a flicker of mental energy able to deflect it past his cheek. “You call me an imposter, but I name your lord nothing but a pretender, a pawn of the King of Torenth.” He flung out one hand towards Marek. “You yearn for Gwynedd but you won’t have it, not beyond the six feet we’ll use to bury you!”

With a roar both sides surged towards each other with renewed fury and Donal’s horse plunged further forward, shouldering through the startled men between him and the enemy.

“Take him! Take him!” The young knight – not even Malcolm’s age, Donal guessed – doffed his own helm and waved his sword. The sharp features coincided with memories shared by Blaine Makrory and he knew it was Prince Festil himself.

Men in Tolan’s colours rushed forward as Donal reached the front lines and he drew the prince’s sword, cutting the first of them down. “Come and take me yourself if you’re worthy of your spurs!”

There was a shout of “A Haldane!” and more riders in red were flanking him. Urien on one side and Malcolm on the other. Behind them he could sense Vasco and Sean-Seamus fighting their way towards them.

Urien rose up tall in his saddle and pointed his sword, Gwynedd’s sword of state – directly at the banner of Tolan in challenge. “Come to me, Imre son of Imre-Marek! For forty years you’ve coveted my life! Bring forth your gage!”

The banners held their position and then plunged forwards.

“What are you doing!?” Vasco cried out.

“Look to our right.” Donal held his voice as low as he could and still be heard. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Vasco obey.

On the banks, the last of the mists were fading and men in Haldane red were streaming towards the exposed flank of the Torenthi attack, beyond them the banners of the northern lords following suit… and distracted by Donal and the two Haldanes, the House of Festil were ignoring the threat entirely.

.o0o.

Stiofan looked down the slope at the battle unfolding. Before him lay two targets, each equally vulnerable: to the left the exposed rear of the MacEwans and the other northern lords. To the right split from the battle by the burnt out wreckage of an army’s camp was a second, intact camp – the Torenthi.

“We have to act now!” he hissed.

His father nodded his head but still swept the landscape with his eyes before speaking. “Who is that beyond the camp? They’re in Haldane colours.”

Stiofan shaded his eyes and then nodded. “Haldane lancers under Carthane’s banner. I don’t know how they managed to get all the way around behind the Torenthi army but what does it matter?”

That got a sharp nod from Jernian. “Perhaps not at all.” Then his hand swung out. “See there, the Torenthi horse!”

“Damn!” Stiofan nodded. The horsemen were breaking out of column as they left the camp. “They’ll catch the Duke of Claibourne in the flank.”

Jernian’s smile was cruel. “Aye. If they reach them.”

“You’ve decided.”

The duke nodded. “Save the Haldanes, my son. Win their gratitude for yourself and for Corwyn.”

Stiofan almost gasped in relief. “Airlie, the banner! Let them know the Gryphon of Corwyn has come for them.”

“The young Gryphon,” Jernian corrected him. “It matters not what Urien blames me for, win his sons; favour for yourself. Whatever they feel for me will die with me, for good or ill.”

Looking at his father Stiofan shook his head. “Always the schemer, father.”

“Pah! It’s the part of an old man to carry the blame if by doing so he can make his son more secure.” Jernian pointed down the slope. “Go, go. There’s glory to be won for you and Airlie, glory and the gratitude of a king.”

Stiofan nodded and spurred his horse forward, Airlie at his left hand, the great black banner with its emerald gryphon streaming out behind the boy. “Bugler! Sound the charge!”

.o0o.

Furious as Marek of the house of Furstán-Festil might be, he wasn’t bereft of all tactics.

Nor, it seemed, was he going to settle matters with steel alone. The Pretender threw his lance aside as his destrier splashed into the ford and reached out to either side with his hands. Into his left hand settled the hand of his father and into the right – with an almost audible crack – smacked Prince Festil’s hand.

Then, three generations in unison, they roused power and an arc of blue light swelled behind him. A warding, Donal recognised it, and a deadly one, for those who were even brushed against it were flung aside and did not rise. It said everything of Marek’s ruthlessness that the first victims were soldiers in his service that didn’t make room swiftly enough for him.

“Give us room!” cried Donal to the men around him, hoping that they would. Hoping even more that Urien and Malcolm’s grasp of their power was equal to this.

“For God and for Gwynedd!” A horse spurred past him and Donal saw Archbishop John, mitred helm on his head and crozier raised in challenge. “Back, you spawn of the devil!”

There was a crackle of energy and Donal saw Imre of Tolan flick his hand dismissively. The Archbishop’s horse screamed and bucked, hurling the bold Archbishop from its back. He crashed down to the stones of the ford, crozier lost and lay stunned.

Crimson light flared behind Urien and he extended his hands, raising his own warding line to close the circle that Marek of Festil had begun.

“Stand back!” Donal called out, Cinhil’s voice between his lips. “Let God defend the right!”

Perhaps in answer to his words and perhaps in fear of the powers being conjured in front of them, soldiers fell back from the trio in Haldane crimson and gold. Vasco and Sean-Seamus hesitated, but then the knight reined his gelding around and the highlander followed him upon his pony.

Malcolm took up the same low chant as his father and Donal joined the pair, drawing out the arc of ruby light to meet the sapphire fire of the Festils. The two lines met with a crash, red wavering and pushed back in part by the force behind the Pretenders and in part by the lines closing upon John of Benevent where he lay in the waters. The archbishop didn’t even scream as fire in both colours raged across his body and tore it asunder.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Donal said quietly, nodding towards the Archbishop’s remains.

Brought sharply to a halt with the closure of the circle, Marek released the joined grips on his hands. “I have sworn to cleanse your Episcopate of those who persecute the Deryni,” he replied. “I see no reason not to condemn them to the cleansing of fire as they have our brethren over the centuries.”

“I always hoped that it wouldn’t come to this,” Urien murmured. “But now that it has, I cannot offer you mercy, Marek son of Imre. You bring nothing but blood and death to Gwynedd and while I live you will never rule my Kingdom.”

“Conveniently those are the exact terms I had in mind, Haldane. I don’t know how Kyprian failed to deal with your son last night but I’m almost glad of it. It’ll be so much more satisfying to deal with him myself.”

In answer Donal raised his hands. “Answer then, my mortal challenge. I call you forth, Marek of Tolan, with such aid as you have brought. Once the circle’s orb is fashioned, yours or mine must all embrace cold death, before the living victors pass from out this charmed place.”

Imre arched one eyebrow and nodded in reluctant respect. “You’re better versed than we believed,” he admitted. “By Earth and Water, Fire and Air, I conjure powers to flee this Ring. The circle ends when six are three and three are free.”

Around them now, surrounding the six men and their mounts, a wine-dark dome separated them from the rest of the battlefield.

Rare as duels like this are, somehow I’d never envisaged fighting one mounted, Donal thought. I can’t say I like the notion – there’s no room to manoeuvre and there’s no telling how they’ll react. And by tradition it’s the challenged who strikes first, but who’s the challenged here and who the challenger?

No such uncertainty seemed to hinder the young prince Festil, who conjured a stenrect crawler to leap upon his counterpart within the circle, the equally young Malcolm.

Startled, the Haldane struck back first with his sword, the steel lopping one of the brittle legs off the orange and blue creature without notable effect.

Urien uttered a counterspell to banish the conjuring before its deadly maw could close on his new heir. “Magic against magic, son. And steel against steel.”

“Indeed.” Marek drew his sword – a long hilted scimitar he held in both hands. “Let’s see your steel then, old man.”

Donal would have gone to Urien’s side but Imre moved his own fingers in a spell of his own. “Drathon tall, Power come. Conquer all, Senses numb,” he chanted and dark mists began to form the shape of a dragon around him.

Cinhil’s stallion reared in terror and Donal had to cling on fiercely as he shouted: “Drathon kill, Power fade, Senses still, Conquer shade!” to banish the mists. Thank God for the wards, he thought as he felt the energies being unleashed as the other two Festils moved into the same deadly dance of probing spell and counterspell with the Haldanes. Sooner or later I’ll have to let go of the illusion I’m Cinhil and I don’t like to imagine consequences if the army saw that clearer.

.o0o.

Jaron grasped Piran’s arm in dismay. “What’s going on!?” he demanded, pointing at the purple dome downstream that had engulfed his kinsmen and the Torenthi lords.

“Deryni magic.” The knight shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do but trust in your father and in God to protect him, as he’s done before.” He looked at the young prince’s pale face. “I saw your brother’s aide outside that circle before it closed, along with that MacArdry that keeps following him around. Go ask them what happened.”

“But my place is at your side!”

Piran looked at the Torenthi, who’d recoiled from the ford at the sight of the dome. “I think I can spare you for a few moments. The way Danoc and Claibourne are pressing them, I doubt the Torenthi will renew the attack.”

“But what if they win in there!? What if my father and brothers are dead!?”

There was a short crack as Piran backhanded Jaron across the face. “Keep your wits together, Prince Jaron. If that happens you’re the King. And God grant it isn’t necessary, but I suggest you have some archers waiting against the need. If they drop that dome and King Urien is dead you’ll have a Pretender to pass judgement on.”

Jaron took a deep breath and touched his face. “Thank you, Sir Piran. If it comes to that I’ll remember your words.” He turned and ran towards the archers upstream of the dome.

Sir Allen shook his head. “If he is the King, you’d better hope he forgets you almost broke his nose there.”

“I don’t want him to forget it – although I hope he’ll forgive it whatever the outcome. We can’t afford a panic now, when we’re about to win the battle.”

“The battle, yes.” The older looked over at the dome. “But depending what happens in there, we may have lost the war.”

.o0o.

Cinhil’s valiant horse was dead, throat torn apart by a conjured gryphon. Donal hoped it wasn’t an omen for Corwyn’s loyalties. He leapt free and lightning forked from his hands. Imre was ready for counterstrike but Donal hadn’t been aiming for him. The bolts seared into the flesh of Festil’s mount and the young prince cried out as the steed screamed and perished.

Imre paused a heartbeat to assure himself that his grandson wasn’t trapped beneath the horse and when he raised his hands and voice in a new spell it was a darker invocation than those which had come before.

“Spawn of Dagon, Bael’s Darling, Heed My call, which bids thee here. Child of Thunder, hear my order. Come, I charge thee to appear. Smite this usurper’s spawn, Shroud him in a cloak of flames. Help to wrest the usurped power which my son justly claims!”

There was a rumbling of thunder within the dome and even the two rival kings - fire-edged and ghostly as their swords crashed against each other, elemental energies of fire and wind contending for dominance – broke off their duel in the face of the power being brought forth.

Dense black vapour formed into a scaly hide wrapped around the shape of a man, long claws and fiery red eyes marking it as malevolent even before it opened its maw to shriek with hatred at not Donal but Malcolm as the prince halted his charge, a steel blade in one hand mirrored by one of fire in his left, towards the still reeling youngest Festil.

Donal grimaced. Of course – Imre might not grasp that he wasn’t actually facing a royal prince but what he’d raised up had and it was taking him literally. His respite might be for naught though – unless he could think of some counterspell for what the Old Pretender had conjured forth.

Such a spell escaped him, but where Anscom’s teachings and even those he’d received in Torenth failed, the Haldane legacy came to their rescue.

“Lord of Light, in shining splendour!” proclaimed Urien in a booming voice. “Aid me now, if Thou dost hear the supplication of Thy servant, battling for his people here. Lend me the strength to smite this Demon. Send it to the depths of Hell. Cleanse this circle of the Evil, which Imre doth compel!”

The king pointed his finger at the ground beneath the advancing monster and brilliant crimson and gold light erupted from the river waters, forming a circle from which the creation seemed unable to escape even as its substance flared and fumed under that awesome light until at last nothing but a few blue vapors remained.

Donal gasped at the spell. Was that Urien’s work… or God’s hand directly? Was I closer than I knew…?

There was a meaty thump and a cry of pain – Marek of Festil had been less distracted by the effects of Urien’s counterspell and now his sword ran red with Haldane blood.

“No!” Malcolm cried out as Urien fell from his horse, Gwynedd’s sword falling from his half-severed arm. With desperate energy he flung himself from his horse and seized hold of Marek’s son, discarding his weapons. Festil managed a shriek of dismay before Malcolm heaved him back against the deadly energies of the wards.

Donal abandoned subtlety and thrust his will at the wet stones beneath the hooves of Imre’s steed. River stones, shattered as the water they’d absorbed burst to steam and the shards tore upwards and through the horse’s guts.

Perhaps distracted by the failure of his last spell – for surely no one had as shrewd a notion as he of the powers raised for and against it – Imre didn’t get free in time and as the horse fell sideways he too crashed with stunning force against the riverbed.

Sword raised high in both hands, Donal put one foot upon the dead horse’s shoulder to look down at the fallen prince.

Imre’s eyes met his. “Saint Camber!” he gasped and then closed his eyes in resignation as Donal brought the blade down with both hands, the tip of the sword driving through the mail links of the coif and into the throat and spine below.

‘Saint Camber’? Why would one of the ousted Festils invoke he of all saints? The mastermind of the Haldane Restoration was no saint in the Torenthi Church.

He turned to see Malcolm lash out at the dismounted Marek with a whip of crimson flames. It accomplished nothing though, for the Pretender raised a curtain of water from the river and doused the flames before they could reach him.

“You’ve slain my son, Haldane, but he is avenged.” With that, Marek drove his scimitar down and into the mail below Urien’s arm.

“Father!”

Donal seized Malcolm’s arm to stop him from rushing forwards recklessly. With an effort of will he caused the Gwynedd sword of state to slither across the stones to his feet. “Take your father’s sword.”

“Who are you that wears the Haldane’s livery?” Marek stalked forwards, sword held ready and his head haloed in a blaze of violet power. “An imposter of course – replacing the dead Cinhil – but what have they offered you for this?”

Shaking his head, Donal realised that the illusion of Cinhil’s had collapsed at some point. “Nothing that you could offer me.”

Marek laughed scornfully. “Do you think I’d spare you, you with my father’s blood still upon your sword? Nay, but I would know why.”

“Sancti Camberi,” Donal replied thinking of Imre’s last words. “Defensor Hominum.”

“One of those then, a willing traitor to your own kind.” Marek shook his head. “The six have become three as my father said but no three shall walk free now. I will end you, you and the Haldane both.”

“You’re outnumbered.”

“Naïve little prince.” Marek shook off Malcolm’s warning. “This battle was always to the death and if you are less resolved to it than I…” He gestured violently with his sword and then raised it in ironic salute. “If you fear your fate too much and your companion his desserts too small, fall now to I, Marek the King, who dares to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all!”

There was a crackle from the wards and they divided themselves, the red from the blue. The only purple remaining was a deep indigo line that divided the two hues… and one that began to sweep forwards towards Donal and Malcolm, driving the red before it. Urien’s horse burst into flames as it was covered by the blue light, Malcolm’s succumbed to fear and threw itself against the barrier with no less dreadful effect.

Donal and Malcolm both began to cast the spell to match Marek’s move. It was Malcolm who completed it first, taking up the gage: “Both our fathers have fallen to this game, I do not fear your test of flame. They them call he the winner who takes all; thus shall justice be done, though the heavens fall.”

The indigo line halted its advance and was even driven back under Malcolm’s fury though Marek rallied himself and soon the divide between red and blue, Haldane and Festil, writhed back and forth across the dome as each of the two sought to find and exploit some weakness in the other’s mastery.

Bound by Malcolm’s fate but unable to influence the decision Donal quietly resumed Cinhil’s guise. If Marek triumphed it wouldn’t change anything but otherwise it would be necessary to maintain the charade at least briefly.

He saw sweat beading Marek’s brow. A Deryni as young and inexperienced as Malcolm shouldn’t be able to contend with a grown and accomplished sorcerer – Donal himself doubted his readiness and that doubt itself would have been a potentially fatal flaw.

Yet the Haldane gift seemed more than sufficient to level the field, whatever its other limitations, and that fact was cracking away at the Festil’s composure.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the indigo line moved more and more towards the Pretender and the red grew in strength while the blue shrank, with Marek forced back to remain beneath such of the wards as he still controlled.

Discarding his sword, the prince threw his hands forward, summoning one last effort. The line above drew back but around the sides Malcolm pushed forwards, reducing Marek’s control to a sliver from almost the height of the dome to the river behind him.

Even now he was too proud to show fear. Instead a grim resignation crossed his face as Malcolm methodically whittled away at the remaining blue.

At last, with only a few feet of the dome still his own, Marek took one last breath and spread his arms wide. “Do not think this an end to the enmity of our houses,” he called out and then – in an instant – the scarlet light took the last of the dome and took Marek too. Crimson flames burst from his mouth and eyes, searing his livery black before the dome itself shattered into a flickering of sunlight upon the surface of the Falling Water once again stained with blood.

Malcolm dropped to his knees in the water and Donal moved to rest his hands upon the prince’s shoulders. No, upon the king’s shoulders, for though none save Vasco and themselves knew it, that burden fell to Malcolm now.

“Is it over?” whispered the young King of Gwynedd.

“One chapter is,” Donal assured him, knowing that yet another must now commence.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

 _Who will have all men to be saved, and to come unto the knowledge of the truth._  
1 Timothy 2:4

They carried the body of the dead King from the river on a litter of his own mantle. Donal ordered awestruck Cassani to also bring forth the bodies of Imre and Festil… no trace could be found of Marek after that last moment.

Vespian d’Aphienne stepped forwards to assist with the bodies and Donal was glad to permit that, delegating Malcolm to take charge of them. “How goes the battle?” he asked Vasco, seeing the east bank was cleared of the Torenthi soldiers.

“Danoc and Claibourne swing their line through the Torenthi attack and smashed through them. With the way they’ve been pushed back, I can’t tell you more than that, but no one’s retreating towards us yet.”

Donal nodded. “I’ll need another horse.”

Vasco whistled and Sean-Seamus trotted forwards on his pony, leading another warhorse. “I thought you might say that.”

“Then you thought wisely.” Donal swung himself up into the saddle. “Sir Allen! Bring your men forward after us – the Pretender’s dead, now all that’s left is to drive the Torenthi from Gwynedd!”

A cheer, only slightly muted by Urien’s death, went up from the men as Donal’s horse started trotting in the direction of Danoc’s banner. Vasco closed up the distance and leant over to remind him “Remember, you’re not really the prince,” before Sean-Seamus caught up.

Donal spoke carefully, wary of being overheard. “I know, Vasco. That’s why I left Malcolm back in the camp where it’s safe.”

The ground was littered by the dead and those too wounded to move – Torenthi and Gwynedder alike. It’d take hours to sort out dead from injured and Donal had to harden his heart as they rode past. He couldn’t afford to stop and aid the wounded of either side – it was his duty now, as Cinhil’s stand-in, to try to conclude the battle so that others could see to the men lying in the field.

No, trying isn’t enough. I have to succeed.

More cheers arose from Danoc’s men as they rode up, Haldane banner flying. They didn’t know yet that their King had fallen.

“I seem to keep leaving the army in your hands, Gillis. It’s fortunate they’re able hands.”

The Earl bowed his head. “I’m honoured by your praise, my prince.”

Donal dismounted and lowered his voice, drawing the Earl aside. “I don’t want to alarm your men, but I’m now your king.”

“The Festil’s work?” choked Gillis Gillespie, face red with choler but he turned away from his men to hide his fury.

“Malcolm and I have avenged our father. We haven’t seen Marek’s younger son yet but he’s the last man of their line.”

“Aye.” Danoc half turned and pointed south towards the army’s right flank. “Speaking of Deryni, it seems the Duke of Corwyn finally remembered his oaths to your father.”

Donal shaded his eyes and saw the black banner with its green gryphon alongside Carthane’s banner. “He’s joined us at last then.”

“He did. Lord Stiofan brought a thousand horse to the field and with Earl Godwyn’s help he broke the back of the Torenthi horse when they tried to take us in the flank.”

Lowering his hand Donal nodded. “I won’t say I’m as likely to trust him as I am Duke Keene but better he’s under our banner than fighting against it.” Most of the Torenthi were backing up around the northern side of their old camp but a smaller fragment – mostly mounted – was swinging around the south. “Do we know who’s in charge there?”

“Not any more. I haven’t seen the banners of Marluk or their church since Godwyn and Stiofan broke the enemy cavalry. The only banners of note left are those two…”

“Kulnán… and Sostra to the south.” Donal shook his head, remembering the arrogant Count of Sostra, Kyprian’s herald after the first day of fighting here at the Killingford. Would he be so arrogant now? “Send forward heralds.”

“What should he say?”

“Tell them if they surrender I’ll spare their lives.”

.o0o.

“You have ruined me!” Kyprian seized the table he was using as a desk and heaved it upwards, toppling the papers and ink pots across the tent. “You failure! How dare you stand before me with that arrogant face?”

Torval of Sostra’s eyes blazed with fury. “Since the Count of Kulnán surrendered to terms offered by Cinhil Haldane – who you claimed to have slain last night – perhaps it is not I who is a failure!”

The king’s face paled in shock. “You enfronterous…. No, you treasonous dog! I see it now! Guards!”

Realising his temper had ill-served him, the Count fell to his knees. “I abase myself your majesty! My fear for your safety led me to speak unwisely!”

Arkady stepped forwards as men at arms moved to surround the Count. “He is your nephew, my lord. Cousin to the Festils who have died this day. Permit his grief this one transgression.”

“No, my son.” Kyprian stepped forwards and glared down at Torval. “It is not grief but ambition that rules him – he would see us ousted and his own nephew upon the throne, with himself as the power behind it!”

“It is not so! I served you loyally in the east, I have served you loyally now – did I not refuse to surrender on the Haldane’s terms?”

The king turned his back. “Take him outside and cut his head off. I don’t wish to hear his voice again.”

“Father!” protested Arkady as one of the men forced a leather strap between Torval’s teeth to silence any further protests as they dragged him away.

“I have spoken! It is you and your other brothers who I am protecting, Arkady.”

Don’t you see how brittle we’ve become, Arkady wanted to say. Already more than half the highest houses of Torenth have passed into the hands of successors, some of them children and others back in Torenth. And now you’re alienating even our own close kin.

I will need to do something to solve this, he realised. But this wasn’t the moment. “I’ve sent Marek Junior south-east with a fast party. They should reach Rengarth and have that fortress secured before the Gwynedders can reach it in forth. Now we must look to our own retreat.”

“Retreat?”

“We have no choice.” Arkady felt the snap of his voice. “We have few cavalry left and with Kulnán’s surrender, not much more than three thousand foot, many of them already wounded once. With Corwyn’s arrival, the Haldanes still have at least six thousand men. We have to withdraw – or would you rather leave Zimri to pick up the pieces with our army slaughtered? There are barely enough men trained to arms left in Torenth to man the border fortresses.”

He saw tears forming in the corner of Kyprian’s face but the King turned away. “How? How did the Haldane survive? How does he rise ascendant? God, tell me why you permit this?”

The prince crossed his arms and eyed his father coolly.

“Very well.” At last the king lowered his chin to his chest. “Very well. Take command, Arkady. Take command and lead the army east. The Cardosa pass?”

“Aye, it’s our straightest route and the supply wagons coming to us will at least let us feed the men.”

.o0o.

“It is the end then, or at least the beginning of it.”

Duke Keene and Duke Jernian sat opposite each other at the table, separated from Donal only by Malcolm and Jaron. Earl Danoc, Earl Godwyn and the Bishops Vespian d‘Aphienne and Faustin MacArt rounded out what amounted to an impromptu royal council.

“It’s interesting that the herald comes from Prince Arkady and not his father,” observed the Duke of Corwyn. “It isn’t Kyprian’s habit to delegate power in that fashion.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” asked Keene.

Donal raised his hand in warning. “No quarrelling here, gentlemen.”

“Aye, no quarrelling.” Keene looked angrily at Cinhil. “Shall I tell that to Banan Coris, mourning his brother? To those of my officers who lie dying? Or to my father and brother’s graves?” The northern levies had, again, taken severe losses in the battle with their lords fighting at the fore and paying the price for their gallantry.

“Yes, your grace. Tell them that and tell them also that the House of Haldane shall never forget those who supported them through these days and those to come – and nor shall we forget the exact degree of the support we received.”

Jernian flinched at that addition.

“Duke Jernian, I’ve had many loyal men assure me of your son Stiofan’s ability and fidelity. I’ve decided to entrust him with the pursuit of Marek Festil’s remaining retainers. Obviously such a hard ride would be too much to ask of a man of your years so I will be pleased if you remain in camp here as part of my council.”

“I am honoured and I am sure your sources have also spoken of Stiofan’s diligence.”

“They have. And since he’ll be taking all the Corwyn levies upon that chase, I’ll have Earl Danoc assign a suitable guard to see that you’re protected as your rank befits.”

There was a chuckle from MacArt at the duke’s discomfiture.

Donal gestured to the bishop. “We’ll need to assemble a force that can march after the Kyprian’s remaining army. I’d like you to accompany them, Father Faustin. It might be quite the march so the wounded can be left behind. Much as I’d like to lead the army, with father’s death my place is here, so Earl Gillis will be in command.”

“I’ll take my division and Sir Allen’s, sire.” Gillis Gillespie looked over at Duke Keene. “I mean no insult to you proud northern men, but it seems best to me that the King have men of proven loyalty to guard him.”

Keene glanced slyly at Jernian before nodding. “No offense is taken, Earl Gillis.”

“Godwyn, you can take a day or two to rest your men and then I want a fast column going west again. There’s been skirmishing along the Mearan border according to Bishop Jashan so some reinforcements there should remind them that we’re in no mood to be trifled with.”

“I can have a column ready by the morrow.”

“I know you can, cousin. But the day after is soon enough. You’ll make better progress with rested horses.” Donal looked at Malcolm who nodded slightly. “We’ll need to discuss possible terms to offer Torenth and Meara, if they’re willing to see reason. But before that, Bishop Vespian, may I impose upon you?”

“In what manner, Your… Sire.”

“It seems to me that while we may have occasionally been too busy these past three days to keep God always in mind, he has been good enough not to forget about us. There will be enough prayers for our dead in the weeks to come, but today one of thanksgiving would not go amiss…”

.o0o.

Vasco waited until the door to the bedchamber was closed – Jaron dismissed to join the Earl of Danoc in preparing for the next day’s march - and then looked to Donal. The northern knight didn’t remove the illusion of Cinhil’s face but he removed the circlet he’d worn for the council meeting and dropped to one knee before Malcolm.

“Your crown, sire. With my deepest apologies for the presumption of having worn it.”

Malcolm accepted the circlet but didn’t don it. “I know no presumption was meant, Sir Donal.” He looked to his brother’s pallet. “Is there no hope for him?”

“None. You can see for yourself.”

Malcolm hesitated and then shook his hand. “No. I cannot. I will not.”

Donal nodded and removed his cloak, handing it to Vasco. “It’s time then. If we exchange clothes now then one of us can do… what has to be done.”

“The coup...” Malcolm shook his head. “It would be too suspicious, surely.”

“Nothing so blatant. Your brother’s heart can simply… rest.”

The young king shivered. “No.”

“No?” asked Vasco in quiet alarm.

“I don’t care how we dress it up. We’re talking about killing my brother.”

“His body, yes.”

“And his soul? I know you say his mind is gone, but can you say the same about his soul?”

Donal shook his head. “No, I can’t say that. Whoever did this may have hated him but they weren’t so rash as to try to harm his soul. Such magics are little more than legend in any case. No, the cord between body and soul is frayed but not yet broken. Only in death will they part. Nonetheless, I will remind you, Malcolm: the coup de grace has always been accepted as the final mercy for a man lingering without hope of recovery.”

“But he isn’t in pain, is he? And… perhaps I am too much the product of a seminary. You know the Church has never been pleased by the practise.”

Vasco cleared his throat. “Sire, is it his pain that concerns you… or your own?”

“I don’t know. I’m…” Malcolm sat on the bed, looking as young as he actually was. Save for Jaron he had been the youngest man in the Royal Council. “I’m not ready. First Cinhil like this and then father…”

“Sire…”

“Don’t call me that! While Cinhil breathes, the crown is his, not mine!”

The two knights exchanged looks, Donal’s expression beneath Cinhil’s features clearly as baffled as Vasco felt. “What do we do then? Sir Donal can maintain the pretence a little longer but…”

“But sooner or later the Bishops will want to anoint Cinhil as King.” Donal shook his head. “I won’t do that, S… Malcolm. Today was one thing but I’m not the rightful king. Your father’s dead and Cinhil is… incapable.”

“I know, I know but…” Malcolm threw himself on the bed. “Can you not give me time?”

“How long will Cinhil’s body live?” asked Vasco.

“I’m not entirely sure. A few days.”

He sighed. “Alright then. Can you keep the pretence up until he does die?”

“Probably.” Donal scratched his head. “Although the longer it takes, the harder it’ll be to explain why I’m waking up hale after days asleep. And it’ll be much harder to arrange an exchange if we’re on the march – either after Kyprian’s army or back to Valoret.”

“Then we are constrained, Sire.” Vasco looked at Malcolm. “If Donal is willing to grant you a few more days before you must take up the crown of Gwynedd, you must accept that this deception cannot last long.”

Malcolm nodded his understanding. “Father’s body must be taken to Rhemuth for burial – in the summer heat we can’t put that off for long – and Bishop d’Aphienne spoke of carrying some of the wounded to Valoret and the religious houses around it rather than leaving them here in the camp. Can you give me until we reach Valoret? Bringing my brother in the form of Sir Donal shouldn’t be too difficult to explain.”

Donal weighed the prospects. “You’re talking about almost a week, Sire. I’m unsure your brother can last that long and if he passes before we resume our roles, I’ll be the one believed to have died. That would be quite difficult to explain.”

“Very well then, you say that I am your king. I command you, Sir Donal, to serve me in this fashion.”

The two knights exchanged uneasy glances.

“Very well, Sire. As you command.”

.o0o.

Roisian had found the Cathedral of Saint Asaph something of a refuge over the past weeks.

Her mother and Annalind preferred to keep their grief to the royal apartments and the royal chapel, while the great lords might seek to draw her into their political wrangling in the Great Hall of the palace – but here in stone cathedral with its famous red-tiled spire she could grieve quietly for her father.

Had Judhael’s body been returned to Laas to lie in state then it would surely have become a focus of mourning within the city, but without this the public grief had been limited and Roisian could sit or kneel in the royal pew without interruption for an hour or two, alone with her thoughts before anyone dared invite – summon, truly – her attention to their particular matters.

For this reason she was discomfited when she realised that only shortly after her arrival, Rhiyrd Kincaid had taken a seat in the pew behind. The Earl’s son and heir bowed his head penitently enough but Roisian felt his eyes upon her as she prayed.

“Your Highness,” he murmured as the cathedral choir began to sing the Vespers hymns.

“Lord Rhiyrd,” she answered, forcing herself to suppress her irritation. Loren Kincaid had been forced to ride back to Kildaren to attend to military matters and in his absence, his son loomed large among the lords of the north.

For a mercy, the young lord remained quiet though the Vespers service but just when she had dared to hope that he might restrain himself to being only a silent presence he leant forwards.

“All know how greatly your grief lies upon you as a burden, my princess. I would only have you know that many Mearan men stand ready to support you in your time of need.”

Roisian for a moment found the hint of possessiveness the most disturbing part of his words and then realised the true implication that lay behind them. Mearan men – as opposed to the men of Torenth – supported her. Or was that to say that the Mearan lords were cooling to the notion of a Furstán prince arriving to be her right arm and the father of future princes of Meara?

“I am comforted greatly by the loyalty of Meara’s lords to their princess,” she replied quietly.

“If there is any service I might do to lighten the burden upon your shoulders, know that you need only ask.”

Roisian nodded. “Perhaps, Lord Rhiyrd, you might be willing to carry some word to the Lord Zygmunt Furstán-Medras. Instruct him that I would be pleased if he would attend upon me after tonight’s dinner. For it is not beyond my grasp that the Deryni have means to commune across great distances and that he may thus have news of how matters stand for his king and for King Marek within Gwynedd.”

“Doth my lady truly require the word of a foreigner to guide her?”

“I am Mearan to my heart,” she replied – now inescapably sharp in her tone. “But I would serve Meara poorly not to remember that other and potent kingdoms lie beyond our borders and stay informed upon their doings.”

For a moment she thought that Rhiryd would press his point further. Instead he seemed startled. “Pray pardon my offense, Your Highness. I remain your faithful servant.”

Aye, and your father’s also. “As your father leads our armies in the north, I know I can rely upon you as my eyes and ears within the court, Lord Rhiryd.”

Perhaps pleased by this compliment, Rhiryd retreated and Roisian clasped her hands in prayer once more.

Feeling sure that others would seek her soon, she prepared to leave the cathedral but as she looked for her ladies-in-waiting, who had withdrawn to a discreet distance, she saw a more welcome face entering the Cathedral.

Worshipers moved to give Bishop Briand of Meara space as he walked through the nave but he slowed his progress to offer his blessings to the young and kind words to those there in mourning. There were many widows in Laas of late and many eligible daughters and younger sons who had seen their status rise sharply of late.

“Your Highness.” The rotund bishop, wearing travel-stained riding leathers beneath a warm cloak, only the amethyst ring on his finger and the cross at his throat marking his clerical status, bowed deeply as Roisian approached.

Smiling as she felt she had not almost since he departed, Roisian knelt and kissed his ring. “Are you returned so soon, Father Briand? I had not looked for you to return from Culdi for days yet.”

There was a shadow in the bishop’s eyes despite the fatherly smile upon his lips. “My journey was swift and in truth, Bishop Haldane most gracious in certain matters that you desired addressed. Perhaps you would join me in my chambers here that I may give you a fuller report.”

“I would be pleased to,” she answered, wondering at what it might indicate.

Although no less surprised that Roisian at their master’s sudden return, Briand’s servants proved highly efficient. A table set with a hearty meal and a flagon of wine was set out while the Bishop was whisked away to swiftly replace his riding leathers with a plain cassock under an embroidered cope and a crimson skull-cap.

Briand was wiping his face as he returned. “Your pardon for the small diversion,” he requested. “My staff have high standards and I fear I’d break their hearts if I sat down to eat before royalty still wearing travelling clothes.”

“I think much of Meara knows you better by those leathers than by your chasuble,” Roisian replied gently. “But let us not scandalise your staff.”

The bishop took a seat facing her and began to fill his plate. “As I said outside, Bishop Haldane was most gracious. He’s assured me that in principle he and his brother are happy to offer safe conduct for a party to ride to Cassan and return with your father’s body and sword. While the details of how many should be permitted in such a party would be subject to some terms, there was no mention made of any concessions being made for your father’s return.”

“That seems almost too generous.” Roisian sipped on a glass of the wine to give him a chance to continue and when he did not she added: “But surely there is some other matter then that has arisen.”

“My lady, it appears that messenger pigeons had been prepared to keep the Bishop informed of progress of the battles in the east. Prince Cinhil had carried several with him when he departed to join his father and three days ago, when I left Culdi, Jashan Haldane claims that such a message arrived with most significant – and for Meara, ill-starred – tidings.”

“What could have spurred you so urgently that you’ve ridden from Culdi to Laas in only three days!? You must have ridden your horses half to death.”

“Fortunately I could change horses at every religious house along the way. There are some perquisites of a Bishop’s rank.” Briand filled his own goblet. “There has been a battle upon the plains north-east of Valoret, or so he claims. There is no proof of this as yet, of course, but I am inclined to believe him for surely the truth will reach us soon by other means.”

Roisian shook her head. “Father you say there has been a battle but only imply at the outcome. I take it that it was no triumph for our ally, King Kyprian.”

“Far from it. Bishop Haldane tells me that King Urien fell in battle but scarcely a prince or duke remains to Torenth and that Kyprian flees for his own lands with only a fraction of his former strength.”

“Urien Haldane is dead? No, I agree. It isn’t plausible that the bishop would lie about that. But the Torenthi losses?” Roisian held her goblet in both hands, contemplating the reflection of her face upon the surface of the wine. “Kyprian lives, evidently. But King Marek and his sons? Or Prince Nikola?”

“I have no news of your betrothed – in fairness, any message sent by pigeon must be short by necessity. Marek himself is dead – Jashan claims it was he who killed Urien before being slain himself.”

“Then I must hope, as must Annalind… oh poor Annalind! To have lost one betrothed already and now we must fear for a second.”

“There is one more detail,” Briand added reluctantly. “Jashan claims that with Torenth defeated King Cinhil is sending part of his army west once more. He did not say what orders they carried but to some extent it hardly matters.”

Roisian buried her face in her hands. “Indeed it does not. I think you for bearing me these tidings, Father. If their content is not as might be desired that is no fault of yours as their bearer.” But what shall I do now? Our alliance with Torenthi hangs by a thread that may already have been cut. Can I look to them for aid now?

.o0o.

Ancient Valoret, with its Royal Palace and Cathedral of All Saints, glowed with the light of thousands of lamps and candles as Urien Owain Rhys Michael Haldane made his final entry to the city, his coffin borne upon the shoulders of six knights behind his riderless horse – not the steed from the battle itself of course, but the King had had many chargers at his disposal – with Urien’s boots reversed in the stirrups.

The new Duke of Claibourne led the horse. Formal investiture into his offices would be delayed until the formal coronation of the new king in Rhemuth but Donal had assured him in Cinhil’s voice that he would inherit not only his father’s duchy but also the hereditary title of Earl Marshal that was his due as Gwynedd’s senior non-royal Duke.

The State Crown of Gwynedd sat atop the coffin, with Sir Vasco in careful attendance to ensure its security. The crown glittered in the multitude of lights reflecting off its gold and silver oak leaves and crosses.

Scarcely enough knights could be found to provide an honour guard for the new king. Malcolm and Jaron (despite Donal’s wish to send him with the Earl of Danoc’s army, he could hardly have been sent away from his royal father’s funeral) flanked ‘Cinhil’ and behind them the twelve knights of the guard marched four abreast, separating them from the rest of the court – such as had been at Valoret or returned from the Killingford with Urien’s body.

Jernian de Corwyn, Banan Coris, Custus Howell and Theophilus Genlis were among those few – a Duke of uncertain loyalty and three as yet uninvested Earls. It underwrote to the people of Valoret just how hard-won the battle already creeping into folklore was.

Two Bishops greeted them at the doors to the Cathedral – Faustin MacArt who had ridden with them and Gerald de Morgan, auxiliary to the much mourned John of Benevent – and the choir of All Saints could be heard as the ecclesiastical elements of the procession joined the funeral party and they made their way inside.

“I wish he could lie in Rhemuth,” Jaron whispered. “As grandfather does.”

“It’s the height of summer.” Malcolm’s reply was similar in its discreet tone. “He can be reinterred later.”

Donal didn’t trust himself to be able to speak to the other two without being overheard – being the focus of all eyes was a disconcerting experience – so he instead glanced soberly at the Haldane princes until they fell silent.

Eyes continued to follow him through the ceremonies. The old king was dead but the young king lived and the court was already moving into position from which Cinhil’s favour could be courted. It was a black jest that before any of them could imagine it, they would be interring a second king here.

He went through formal steps of the ceremony, remembering his father Davin’s funeral years before. A far less grand and more personal occasion but then Davin MacAthan had been free to be more personal and less grand than King Urien could ever have allowed himself.

That the cup of kingship was not his in truth was one relief Donal felt from the weight of the moment. As the final prayers were made for the final repose of Urien’s soul, Donal prayed instead for forgiveness for his current deception and for failing to protect Cinhil sufficiently. Had I done more…

Taking Urien down into the crypt was a refuge since the close confines necessarily reduced the burial party to the minimum. A sarcophagus lay waiting although no one had truly expected to lay another king to rest there. There were Haldanes aplenty though – Urien’s coffin was carried past the tomb of the great Augarin who had united Gwynedd under their house and the royal vaults that held five Festillic kings were surrounded by the niches in which lay the dozen or so Counts Haldane and their families.

“I’m told that this was once the resting place of your namesake,” murmured Bishop de Morgan to Cinhil. “He was reinterred in Rhemuth sometime later of course. It’s possible other Haldane kings have rested here briefly but none so famously.”

Owain perhaps, thought Donal. He, like Urien, fell in battle during high summer in the north-west. And King Nygel. Perhaps others too, from before the Interregnum. Realising some reply was required he nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will rest here one day. If so, then I will be in honourable company.”

Only one bell rang out as they left the crypt – tolling out a long, slow and mournful count of the late king’s fifty-one years.

Donal barely noticed as he saw a familiar face among the courtiers waiting for him outside.

Walther de Cynfyn had finally caught up with them.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

 _For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched without the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin._  
Hebrews 4:15

For all his occasional presumptions, Rhiryd Kincaid was at the least reliable. Rosian dined at the high table that evening, alongside her mother and sisters and saw he’d placed himself next to Lord Zygmunt at the high table, well placed to escort the Torenthi to meet with her after dinner – and no doubt to insinuate himself into that council if given the chance.

The meal was ostensibly to welcome Bishop Briand back to Laas, so Roisian had given him pride of place at the table, at her right hand while her mother and sisters sat to the left. This engaged her mother’s attention swiftly to the matter he’d been sent to attend to in Gwynedd and the news that it had been agreed in principle that Jolyon’s body could recovered without concession was greeted with mild cheer.

“I’m inclined to think sending a galley north would be the wisest way to handle this,” Roisian suggested thoughtfully. “It would avoid the risks for a party travelling through the borderlands while they’re as unsettled as Earl Loren’s reports indicate.”

“But what if the galley sinks?” asked Annalind nervously. “They do, you know. Father could be lost below the waves forever along with anyone we send.”

“Only occasionally,” her mother said with the assurance of being the only woman at the table ever to have travelled by sea. “And I gather that summer is perhaps the safest time for a voyage.”

Briand nodded thoughtfully. He’d played at ignorance of the message he’d brought all evening, saying his return was only to consult upon suitable details for the party to be offered safe conduct into Cassan. “The nature of sending one ship would also act as a guarantor to Bishop Haldane that we’re not attempting to abuse his safe conduct. There are some fairly firm restrictions to how many armed men can be aboard a galley besides the crew.”

“Crews can be quite large though – easily fifty men.” Urracca leant forwards to speak past Roisian. “Would this Haldane feel sufficiently secure in letting one of our galleys enter their harbours?”

“Given advance notice of which harbour it was, perhaps so.” The Bishop sipped at the cup of mead that had been served to him. “I think the plan has merit, Your Highness. Would you like me to propose such a plan?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t want anything in exchange.” Annalind frowned in perplexity. “It seems most unlikely he’d be so poor a bargainer. Surely he must want to gain something from this.”

“I suppose I could offer him the return of a certain tapestry if it would make you feel better.”

Annalind stared at her sister in mortification. “Roisian!” she protested.

“Annalind isn’t entirely wrong. Perhaps the Haldane’s position is weaker than we think and his conciliatory offer is intended to mask this with confidence.”

“That isn’t implausible.” Briand cupped his chin. “If… and I merely raise this as a possibility… if Jashan Haldane were expecting reinforcements for his forces then prolonging the negotiations might be in his best interests. On the other hand, his unexpected generosity may indicate that he’s happy to resolve the matter and not particularly concerned what we might do.”

“I,” Urracca placed her hand over her heart, “Believe my dear Jolyon’s body being in Cassan reminds those there that he, not the FitzArthur-Quinnells, was their rightful prince. Men may even flock to where he lies and in sending him home to Laas, the Haldane wants to undercut that sentiment.”

Briand shook his head. “I can only say that there was no indication of that sentiment at Culdi, my lady.”

Roisian looked to her mother. “I’ve invited Lord Zygmunt to meet with me after dinner, mother. I would be pleased if you would join me. I’m sure Annalind can care for Magrette this evening.”

Annalind perked up. “Is there news from the east?”

“I don’t know, but I hope to find out. Lord Zygmunt is a Deryni after all, he may have sources of information that we do not.”

“I hope you weren’t planning to meet him alone.”

“Not at all, mother.” Roisian tapped her mother’s hand. “I know better than that. I’d like Bishop Briand to chaperone and I’m considering inviting Rhiryd Kincaid as well.”

“Hmm. Yes, that might serve.” Urracca turned to look past Annalind at her youngest daughter. “You’ll be good for your sister, won’t you Magrette?”

Once the last course of the meal had been served, Roisian indicated she would be withdrawing to the solar to confer with the Bishop and her mother, leaving the more boisterous of the court to entertain themselves. She gave Rhiryd a nod as she passed him and he returned the gesture before turning to Lord Zygmunt.

Roisian had barely settled herself next to her mother on the cushioned sill of a window nook when there was a knock on the door. One of the maids opened the door and admitted Lord Zymunt. Rhiryd slipped in after the Torenthi lord, his face in an innocent expression that did not suit it.

“Chairs for Lord Zygmunt and Bishop Briand please,” Roisian asked the maids. “Lord Rhiryd, I trust you won’t be offended if I ask you ensure the door remains secure. We will be discussing matters of state after all.”

The young lord bowed floridly and leant against the wall by the door, hand not at all coincidentally resting on the hilt of his sword.

“This all seems most mysterious,” Zygmunt said with a smile as he took his seat. “Should I consider this meeting to be had in confidence?”

“That will depend upon what you have to say, good sire. Roisian knew that what little light remained in the sky would be coming through the window behind her, leaving her a silhouette against the glass. “It is my understanding that Deryni such as yourself have means of gathering information from far away that we mere humans lack.”

“We have our own constraints, Your Highness. However it’s true that under the right circumstances it is possible for us to travel far or even, as you suggest, communicate with our brethren.”

“Then I would suppose that arrangements are in place that allow you to maintain communications with your King that do not depend on couriers crossing or circling Gwynedd to reach us here in Laas.”

The Deryni nodded. “It wouldn’t be true that I’m in constant contact with my lord, but it’s true that I’m regularly contacted from Beldour or – while His Majesty is in the field – from King Kyprian’s headquarters. I assume there’s some reason that this is pertinent.”

“I assure you that all will become clearer.” Roisian leant forwards and looked over to Briand.

The Bishop nodded. “I do have one further question, Lord Zygmunt. When was the last time you received such a contact?”

“Only two days ago, as it happens.”

“How fascinating.” Briand leant towards Zygmunt. “You might imagine we have our sources within Gwynedd – the product of a long history of cross-border raiding and other relationships. I doubt it would surprise you to learn that I’ve been taking advantage of these sources while ostensibly merely negotiating with Bishop Jashan Haldane.”

Zygmunt’s shoulders tensed and in response Rhiryd straightened. “Oh?” the Torenthi asked. “Should I be led to believe that you’ve hear some wild rumours that are of concern to you?”

The Bishop gestured with one hand to indicate uncertainty. “A little better than rumour, Lord Zygmunt, but not an entirely reliable source either.”

Urracca smiled thinly and Roisian could tell that she was fuming at not being informed previously of this. “Why don’t you let Lord Zygmunt know what we’ve heard, my dear Bishop.”

“Of course, my lady.” Briand touched his pectoral cross. “It’s said that King Marek slew King Urien some three days ago and was then slain in turn. Beyond this, that King Kyprian has now been forced into retreat by Urien’s son.”

Zygmunt was about to reply but Briand held up his hand.

“I would stress, three days ago. The day before you were last in contact with your master so it seems to me that if this is the case then you should well aware of if, Lord Zygmunt.”

“Perhaps this is no more than rumour though.” Roisian kept her voice sweet and innocent. “If there was nothing of significance to inform us of then it’s quite reasonable that Torenth’s ambassador wouldn’t seek an audience with me to inform me of the progress of the campaign – or to inform me of his King’s response to my proposal that my marriage to Prince Nikola be brought forwards.” Steel entered her voice. “What was his reply to that, Lord Zygmunt?”

The Deryni coughed in embarrassment. “Very well, Your Highness. You’ve trapped me neatly.” He half-turned his head to Rhiryd. “You won’t need to draw that sword, young sir.”

Hesitantly Rhiryd looked to Roisian who nodded with a calm she didn’t feel. Had she made a mistake in cornering the ambassador? Who knew what a cornered Deryni might manage?

“It’s quite correct that Urien Haldane lies dead, as does King Marek. Who fell first I couldn’t say, but if your source says it was Urien then who am I to disagree?”

“And the rest?” asked Urracca coldly.

Zymunt smiled thinly. “Alas, I must inform you, Princess Roisian that your betrothed fell in battle the day before Urien. I believe that the matter of your marriage date is therefore no longer of concern.”

“And your King is in retreat, his army ruined? There is, in short, little chance of a renewed Torenthi march into Gwynedd this year. Which leaves Meara isolated and easy prey to Cinhil Haldane.”

“Quite so, Your Highness. Since Prince Nikola is no longer in need of a bride, you can see that Meara is no longer a priority to my master.”

“And my other daughter’s fiancé?”

“Prince Marek junior, if he still lives, is heir to his father’s claims upon Gwynedd, my lady. I can only say there that as of two days ago he was alive. There is, I must confess, some possibility that this is no longer the case. Whether he will wish to uphold the agreements made by his father I could not comment. Meara has, after all, proven somewhat less than helpful as an ally.”

“You dare!” hissed Rhiryd. “Mearans bled and died for our alliance!”

“And thousands more of Torenth have done likewise. The fact remains that Meara arms crumbled at their first serious opposition while Torenth fought three days inflicted great losses upon Gwynedd before being forced to retreat. Had you succeeded in forcing the Haldanes to maintain a substantial army in the west then success might not have eluded us on this occasion. As you couldn’t even manage that…” He shrugged eloquently.

Roisian’s eyes narrowed. “I surmise that you’ve been spending some part of the last two days arranging a swift departure back to Torenth, Lord Zygmunt.”

He bowed. “You surmise accurately, Your Highness. And if I may correct you, I may now style myself Count Zygmunt - my cousin Otakar was among those slain in the fighting, along with his only brother.”

“Since your master has discarded us as allies, Count Zygmunt, you may consider your welcome within Laas at an end.” Roisian gestured to the door. “Lord Rhiryd, please see the Count out. He has until dawn to leave Laas. After that moment his status as herald is revoked and I would imagine there are loyal lords in Meara who might take exception to his king’s decision.”

Zygmunt bowed his head. “For what it is worth, Your Highness, I suspect that your children and Prince Nikolas would have blended the best of both your Houses. Alas, it was perhaps not to be.”

The door closed behind him and Rhiryd before Urracca turned on Briand. “And why is this the first that I’ve heard of this news?”

“Because I’ve only just returned to Laas, my lady.” He yawned. “Please excuse me, as I grow older I find I’ve less energy.

“Dinner was far too public to inform you, mother.” Roisian drew her feet up beneath her. “And as you can see, had we waited then the Count might well have fled before informing us of what we now know. It was essential to confront him as soon as possible.”

“But now Meara stands alone…”

“Being honest, mother, we have always stood alone. It is only now that we are aware of it.”

“But surely…”

“There are other reports I did not reveal to the Count.” Briand folded his hands. “The Haldanes, having defeated the Torenthi, are sending reinforcements to strengthen their garrisons along our border. Since Torenth’s ambassador has confirmed other news from this source, we can take this as a fact. I am hardly a war leader but it seems that this will bode ill for any further offensive action on our part.”

Roisian nodded. “Mother, I will need time to consider how to respond to this change in our circumstances. I think it best we sent Lord Rhiryd to inform his father – it is best he can speak to someone who heard Zygmunt himself.”

“Rhiryd’s presence has always implied a degree of his father’s support for your position,” warned Urracca. “Sending him away may appear to leave your alliances among the lords in some disarray.”

“I’m sure he’ll be aware that this also leaves him a new opportunity to become more influential within Meara.” She touched her cheeks and was surprised they were still dry. “I am no longer betrothed after all and we must consider that Annalind’s betrothal could be no more secure. A young and ambitious lord at the court at this moment is a potential danger – and at least for that reason we can be sure he’ll share the knowledge with only his father for the moment. The last thing he’d want is some rival lordling to sweep into Laas with a warband in tow.”

She turned to Briand. “Pray sleep well, Your Excellency, I shall need your council upon the morrow.”

“And when will you sleep, Rosian?” asked her mother.

The princess turned and looked out the window at the setting sun. “I leave it to you to break this news to Annalind. I fear sleep may elude me, with such matters to dwell upon.”

.o0o.

Since accepting Cinhil’s guise, Donal had been forced to refrain from accepting any communication from the Camberian Council. If they knew he was conscious and able to respond then they wouldn’t accept the story that he lay comatose – currently being carried into a guest chamber of the Royal Palace – and thus might question who was in his guise.

If the current masquerade was revealed then the backlash against the Deryni would be almost unimaginable – every church in Gwynedd would declare Donal a heretic and traitor using magic to try to usurp the throne for himself and by association that all other Deryni were guilty of the same crimes.

It wouldn’t be the Council’s wish to provoke that of course, but that assumed that they were able to keep the secret – Bethwyn’s possible fate suggested that any one of them might fall into the wrong hands. And of course, the very risks might have led them to pressure Donal to end the pretence immediately – with all the inherent risk of a permanent rift in relations with Malcolm.

“Sire.” Walther dropped to one knee. “I offer my condolences for the death of your father.”

“Thank you, sir knight. You’re… Euan de Cynfyn’s cousin are you not?”

“Walther, sire. Your father sent me to investigate Duke Jernian’s loyalties and I regret that I was unsuccessful in determining them. I followed his forces north and reached the Schilling ford only after you departure.”

“Duke Jernian appears to be most capable of keeping his loyalties in question. Dare I hope that your cousin’s condition improves I know his injuries were most dire, but he clung to life so fiercely when last I heard that hope did not seem lost.”

“I regret it is not so.” Walther hung his head. “His health was failing when I arrived and I confess that I delayed in riding south to Valoret so that I could remain with him in his final hours.”

“I think no man could justly fault you for compassion to your kinsman.” Donal sighed sadly. “You have my condolences, Gwynedd will sorely miss your cousin.”

“As they will your father.” Walther looked uncomfortable. “Sire, I fear I must speak boldly despite having served you less well than poor Euan. I crave a boon of you.”

Donal looked around. “That is indeed bold of you at this moment, Sir Walther.”

“Aye, you want his time now but where were you when we fought at Killingford?” demanded Banan Coris.

“I regret the timing greatly, but I realise Your Highness is very busy and I might have no other chance to approach you.”

The faux prince raised his hand. “Gentlemen, this is not a meeting of the royal council or a court where I hear petitions. I will assure you that both shall be taking place before tomorrow evening. In the meantime we have ridden far this morning and spent the afternoon laying my father to rest. This evening I would like to reserve for dinner with my brothers and to compose letters to others of our kin, not least to my dear mother and daughter. I must therefore seek your forbearance.”

He saw Malcolm stiffen sharply and placed one hand on the young man’s shoulder, directing what he hoped was a suitably stern and princely looks at the Earl and Walter… who might be an Earl himself now, Donal couldn’t recall the exact succession to Lendour save that Euan had no children and only a single sister.

It seemed to work and the lords gave him space as the royal party walked away.

As they left the Cathedral Vasco joined them, carrying a casket that contained the State Crown. Malcolm used the distraction to touch Donal’s hand. *That knight was a Deryni!*

*I know. He’s an… associate of mine. He tried probing you?*

*Not as such – at least, if he did he wasn’t pressing hard. Just a brush against my shields.*

*It’s not easy to enter someone’s mind without physical contact. I’m still not sure how whoever it was managed to strike at Cinhil – perhaps some focus or a tremendous source of power. Walther’s quite gifted though. It’s likely he hoped you’d lower your shields enough for him to communicate with him.*

They had to break off the conversation for the procession back to the Royal Palace, but as they walked Donal weighed the risks. Walther might not recognise the shape-shifting on ‘Donal’ but he’d certainly realise that there were no shields and that the mind beneath was gone – something quite at odds with what had been encountered when the Council had reached out to Donal in unison.

Once the four of them reached royal apartments, he looked over to Jaron. “You look exhausted, Jaron. Why don’t you take a nap before dinner?”

Jaron coloured at the words. “I’m fine, Cinhil. I can manage.”

Taking the hint, Malcolm rubbed his brow. “Perhaps you are, little brother, but some rest sounds heavenly to me.”

“Perhaps it’s because you’ve been lazing around in the seminary instead of getting some exercise.”

Malcolm responded by catching his brother by the shoulders and they mock-wrestled for a moment before the door until Jaron slapped his brother’s hip in surrender. “Perhaps I am tired if you can beat me, Malcolm. I’ll see you for dinner though.”

“I’ve some vague recollection of being a squire myself,” Donal replied with what he hoped was a touch of Cinhil’s dry humour. “Don’t worry, I know better than to keep a growing young man from his meals.”

Jaron turned back down the stairs and Donal opened the door into the chamber – the same one in which he and Anscom had opened Urien to his powers and set the potentials for Malcolm – signalling that Vasco should follow the youngest prince.

“That was smoothly done,” he observed once Malcolm closed the door behind them.

“He should sleep until dawn, or until someone wakes him.” The young man walked over to sit on one of the chests. “How much of a problem is Sir Walther likely to be?”

“If he manages to get his hands on your brother’s body he’ll know something’s not as we’re pretending. And he’s persistent – following Jernian across half the kingdom should tell you that.”

“Do you trust him?”

Donal sat down in a well-stuffed chair. “For himself, yes. But that doesn’t mean I can be sure of trusting everyone who might have a chance to find this out from him. For that matter, once we’ve carried out the exchange, it’d be safer if you removed my own memories of the last few days.”

Malcolm flinched. “Isn’t that too close to what was done to Cinhil?”

“It’s not entirely unrelated, but I may commune with other Deryni in the future and it would be unfortunate to have them learn of this even after the effect. It’s not really very different from what you just did to Jaron.”

“What about Vasco? He’ll remember it and he doesn’t have the defences that a Deryni has.”

“Sir Vasco has no excuse for losing a week or so of his memories. He’s also less likely to be asked about this but if he’s willing then –“ Donal broke off as the door opened to admit the knight in question.

“Prince Jaron is soundly asleep,” he reported and then glanced at them both. “I’m sorry, did I catch you both in mid-conspiracy?”

“I believe the time’s come for Prince Cinhil to depart the stage,” Donal advised.

Malcolm opened his mouth, thought and then hung his head. “You’re right. You were probably right back in Schilling, but I… I needed the time.”

“Losing a father is hard, Sire. Losing a father and suddenly becoming the heir to a Kingdom must be even harder. But we can’t maintain the deception any longer. It’s already going to be harder with your brother not being in the royal apartments. We need to end this and make sure it’s never discovered.”

Vasco nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that. It wouldn’t be out of character for Prince Cinhil to visit the wounded and we’ve all been maintaining long hours. If he’s visiting Sir Donal and collapses suddenly his condition could simply pass as exhaustion.”

“That would probably pass human scrutiny. They aren’t the only ones who may investigate though, so would you be willing to accept some… assistance in protecting the information?”

The knight looked uneasy. “That would depend what you have in mind, Sir Donal.”

“It’s rather personal, isn’t it?” admitted the Deryni. “I think we can trust you not to speak of them willingly, but with this even a Deryni might not learn of it if they question you.”

“You mean the same way you learned that King Urien was looking into activating his magical legacy. Is that a likely risk?”

“There’s a Deryni at the court already. At the moment he’s probably more curious about my own condition but it would be best not to take chances. I’ve asked His Highness to block my own memories entirely – it’s perfectly plausible I’ll have no memories of what happened while I’ve been in a coma.”

“You’re willing to have that done to you?” exclaimed Vasco in dismay.

“It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Well if you’re willing to do that… how can I refuse?”

“I appreciate your willingness.” Malcolm rose and bowed to the two knights. “I realise you won’t remember this, Sir Donal, but I promise that I will never forget.”

.o0o.

Roisian lit a candle before the altar and dropped to one knee. Is this really for the best? she wondered. I’ve not spoken to anyone of this course of action but…

However little I like the idea, what other path is as promising?

Nothing sprang to her mind.

Mother will hate this and so will Annalind. But what alternatives are there? Hope the threat – no, not a threat, the actuality of Gwynedder invasion – binds Meara together? Or that Cinhil Haldane washes his hands of us and lets us slide into civil war, my sisters and I tokens among the lords?

I need a husband and that husband has to have the power to compel the submission of the rest of Meara. Nothing else will do and there's only one place I can go for such a husband now that Torenth has washed its hands of us.

Father, take this cup from me! I don’t want to throw myself on the mercy of the man who killed you!

“Your Highness… I’d not expected to find you here at this early hour?”

Roisian turned to see Father Ithel staring at her in surprise from the door.

“In truth Father, it’s more a late hour than an early one. I expect Bishop Briand will be here soon as well.”

“A late hour? Did you not sleep last night, child?” the old priest asked.

Roisian lifted her crown from her head and placed it on the floor before her. “While father lived I did not know the weight this brought with it.”

“And no husband to help you bear it now. Ach, I’m sorry, Your Highess,” he added as Roisian felt a tear upon her face. “I did not think before I spoke.”

“I do not grieve for Prince Nikola. I never met him and now I never shall. But I must now choose a husband for myself and…” I am full of fear. But some confessions a princess may not make even to those who understand all too well.

Ithel shook his head. “Can I help you?” he offered.

“When Briand comes I will have confidential instructions for him. I’d be grateful if you could be sure we’re not interrupted. And more so if you could be my witness.” Roisian smiled sadly. “I’m going to anger many people here in Laas, I think. But at least they will know it to be my decision and no others.”

“Aye, I can do that.” Ithel squared his stooped shoulders as best he could and then knelt to lift her crown and restore it to Rosian’s head.

Roisian’s candle had burned down only a finger’s breadth when Briand arrived and Ithel closed the chapel door behind the Bishop, taking out the rarely used key and locking it too.

“I’m ready to return to Culdi, Your Highness.” Briand settled himself in one of the front pews and Roisian moved to sit across the aisle from him. “We’ve discussed arranging a merchant ship to bring your father home rather than a galley. Have you had second thoughts or is there something more you’d discuss?”

“Yes. Not second thoughts that is – I accept the advice that a galley isn’t the best choice for travel around the cape at Ballymar and I’ve ordered certain officers of the court to see that a suitable ship is prepared.”

“Then you have something else in mind, Roisian?” he asked gently.

“Yes, Father Briand.” I could still back down, she thought. But no… Meara demands more of me than that. “When you speak with Bishop Haldane, I’m authorising you to negotiate a marriage through his good graces.”

“A… marriage, Your Highness.”

“Yes. My own. If his nephew is amenable then I offer him peace with Meara and am willing to seal this by offering my hand to a Haldane prince.”

“Your Highness! If Cinhil Haldane himself didn’t slay your father than it was surely one of his army that did so!”

“I am aware of that.”

They stared at each other in silence until Father Ithel cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Bishop would be more able to do your wishes if he understood your reasoning?”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Roisian turned her eyes to the altar. “Meara is facing a civil war. Without a strong prince in Laas, the clans would turn to squabbling as they have so often, but with no prince at all – and we both know how few will accept my ruling in my own right for longer than it takes to settle a husband upon me – they’ll fight for control of myself and my sisters. Our husbands will be rivals for primacy over the other lords, regardless of father’s wishes and God alone knows how that will end.”

“Perhaps if I had a strong and able husband, one outside their eternal rivalries, and my sisters were married safely off to foreign lords, that could be averted but then too I must make peace with Cinhil. King Urien was gracious enough but now he is dead and we must be tainted in his son’s eyes as allies of the Torenthi who killed Urien.”

“Then by marrying him…”

“Ideally, I would wed one of his brothers. Both have seen war and a Haldane prince as my husband or son could reasonably call on aid from east of the Cloomes beyond anything the lords could raise in opposition. For his part Cinhil would gain Meara as… not precisely a vassal but clearly subordinate to him and no longer a potential ally to Torenth. There’s no possible way the House of Festil would stomach a Haldane-led Meara as an ally even if such a Meara would consider the Festils as allies.”

“And your sister’s marriage? She is still to wed Marek of Festil – the new Festillic heir it is said?”

“Even if he still lives, which may not be so, the treaties which were sealed by that betrothal are voided in any case. I will renounce that arrangement. As her elder and as the head of my family I have that authority.”

“That won’t do her prospects any good for another marriage.”

“We need not address that matter unless Marek is known to live. You can offer the Haldanes my undertaking to do so if need be so long as they are willing to arrange a suitable marriage for her well away from Meara if it becomes necessary.”

Briand nodded bleakly. “You have truly steeled yourself to this.”

“Better a princess suffer than her principality. And if it is the way of men to shed their blood on the battlefields for their crowns is it not also the way of women to shed their blood in the marriage bed and in birth for that same cause?”

“Your father, I begin to suspect, would be proud of your resolution, Your Highness. If appalled by the need.”

“Thank you for the sentiment.” Roisian studied her hands. “It’s possible of course that he will decline in general or in specifics. If he has no interest in marital ties to Meara then we have little recourse. If he merely feels that he does not wish one of his brothers to wed me then it would be… less ideal but also acceptable for me to marry a Gwynedd noblemanof suitable stature – a close alliance to a Duke or Earl might offer sufficient stability.”

“And if he proposes to wed you himself?” Briand gripped the edge of the pew. “He is a widower, after all, and a few years older than your late betrothed. That would involve the permanent union of Meara to Gwynedd.”

“And also a matter of church politics.” She smiled wearily. “How would you feel, your excellency, to look for spiritual guidance to an Archbishop in Valoret rather than to the Primate in Sirhowy?”

“I would have to pray for guidance on that matter, Your Highness. Though at least the Church of Gwynedd, like that practised in we western kingdoms, is derived originally from that Bremagne so the theological matters would be at least less complex than those of having a prince who took spiritual direction from the Patriarch of Beldour. But you have avoided my question.”

“It is said that he was a kind husband and remains a devoted father to his daughters. If Cinhil Haldane requires my hand as the price of peace then agree immediately.”

.o0o.

The chambers that housed the wounded were lit only by torchlight once they arrived. Vasco took one of several torches lying ready and lit it from one of those in a wall-sconce before leading the way. At this time of the evening there were only a handful of attendants – what had been done for these men had for the most part already been done and now all that could be done was to wait and see if they recovered.

“Hundreds here and more still at Schilling and the nearby monasteries. So much of Gwynedd’s blood spilt for my family,” murmured Malcolm.

“Saint Piran’s was similarly burdened with Torenthi soldiers who couldn’t join the retreat,” Donal reminded him quietly. “They and those who died did so because of the Festil’s ambitions, not your own.”

“Is it worth it?”

“I doubt all the tales of abuses under the Festils are only legend,” Vasco answered.

Donal shook his head. “Camber of Culdi – Saint Camber – was one of the Festillic king’s highest councillors and a great lord in his own right. He believed, if legend is true, that the Haldanes could have reconciled human and Deryni without oppressing either.”

“And this is the result?” asked Malcolm, sweeping his hands out to indicate the sleeping men in cots, most missing at least one limb.

“The burnings on one hand, the laws that would execute fifty innocent humans for a Deryni slain on the other.” Donal shrugged helplessly. “The only end can be if we learn to live in peace and the Haldanes have been among the few bastions of that moderation. Perhaps one day…”

Vasco saw a shadow move ahead of them, by the door up to the stairs. “Who’s there?” he called out, shifting the torch to his left hand and stepping forward boldly.

Walther de Cynfyn stepped out of the shadows. “Sire.” He dropped to one knee before Donal. “I was visiting some of the Lendour men among the wounded.”

“We’re on a similar errand. I don’t recall any Lendour knights being among those on the upper floor though.”

“They aren’t,” the Deryni replied easily. “But a personal friend of mine, Sir Donal MacAthan, lies there.”

“Sir Donal was my father’s aide, was he not?”

“Aye.” Walther didn’t rise from the floor. “It is for him that I make petition, Sire. I am told he lies comatose after a head wound – you may be aware that recovery from such a state is rare.”

“Alas, that is true.”

“My lord, Sir Donal has been comatose for days. If there is any hope it flees swiftly. I beg your permission to take him to a physician I know of across the Southern Sea in Vézaire.”

“You’re discussing travelling for days by land and then a sea voyage,” Vasco exclaimed. “Do you think Sir Donal would survive such a journey?”

Walther bowed his head. “No, Sir Vasco. My cousin Euan did not make issue of his Deryni heritage, but I presume you know of it and we have our ways. I know that Donal was of aid to you against the Festils and if you will let me I can take him to Vézaire in hours.”

“Sir Donal was privy to certain of our father’s secrets,” protested Malcolm. “How do we know this isn’t a ploy to take these secrets from him while he’s helpless.”

“Are those secrets truly worth the life of your father’s loyal knight?” asked Walther challengingly.

Cinhil – Donal – placed one hand on Vasco’s shoulder. “Enough, raised voices will rouse the men here and even were these matters suitable for public discussion they need their rest. I will consult the physicians on the morrow, Sir Walther. If Sir Donal does show no improvement then I will consider your proposal then.”

“I only hope then,” the southern knight observed, rising to his feet, “That the added hours are hours that my friend can afford.”

Vasco gestured for Walther to move aside. “Then we all have something to add to our prayers this evening.” He unlocked the door and bowed to Donal and Malcolm.

“If Sir Donal lives to chide me for my suspicions then I will be well pleased,” the seeming-prince offered to Walther in consolation before moving past him and up the stairs, Malcolm behind him.

“Do you think he’d already been up here?” asked Malcolm once they’d reached the top of the stairs. “The door was locked.”

“That’s no obstacle to a trained Deryni. He’s had time since we saw him in the Cathedral would he have had time to find out his location and arrive without drawing notice?”

“I may be able to offer some reassurance,” Vasco offered with a smile. The princes had been necessarily preparing for their father’s funeral procession so he’d been responsible for ensuring the comatose Cinhil was brought to a private room. He led them to the door now and knelt to touch the edge of the doorframe. When he straightened, a single hair was upon his finger.

“I notched door and frame before I left and placed this hair in both notches,” he explained. “It was still here so unless someone noticed it and deliberately replaced it, no one’s opened the door since I left.”

“Your wits are as good as magic, my friend,” Donal congratulated him. “I would have been hard-pressed to manage the same and certainly Walther would have noticed such a trap.” He moved inside and examined Cinhil warily. “Damn. I look terrible.”

“He still lives though.”

“How about below the illusion?” asked Malcolm.

Donal shrugged and then knelt beside the stricken prince, placing both hands upon his chest. “We’ll have to find out.”

The illusion had been merciful – Cinhil’s body was shrunken, days of no food and little drink having pared away at his flesh.

“I’ll probably look far too healthy,” the Deryni sighed. “There’s nothing else for it though. I’ll be as confused as anyone once you’re done – there’s no use my using another spell to appear less fit.”

Vasco handed his torch to Malcolm to keep watch with – it would take the two grown men with their full strength to dress Cinhil in his proper, regal splendour and then move him from the bed.

Once the prince was laid out in the finery, Donal helped carry him out into the corridor and then went back and laid out on the bed. “I suppose now I’ll never work out why Imre of Festil called out to Saint Camber when he died,” he murmured.

“Didn’t you tell me that your disguise had slipped while you were fighting him?” Vasco asked.

“Yes… just before that. Why?”

Vasco couldn’t help but smile. “Donal, while we were researching how to activate Urien’s powers I came across a picture of Saint Camber in the royal library – in Talbot’s Lives of Saints. You actually look very much like him – with the light under that dome your pale hair could easily be taken for the silver-grey Camber’s hair was described as.”

Donal sat up in surprise. “He thought I was Saint Camber?”

The knight spread his hands. “Well one moment he’s fighting a Haldane prince and then the face changes… it even fits one of the early miracles ascribed to him.” A bishop cursed by one of the Festils had worn Camber’s face briefly and when it faded the curse was also gone, or so Vasco recalled. “I’d show you the book but you won’t remember that.”

“Actually… I’d be grateful if you would. Say I mentioned Camber’s name in my sleep or something.”

Vasco raised his eyebrows. “Is it important?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Malcolm gestured for Donal to lie back down. “We don’t have much time now. Open your shields to me. I’ll leave you primed to sleep deeply for another day or so and let Walther de Cynfyn have you in the morning. That should confuse any link between Cinhil collapsing and you waking – this mysterious physician of his can take the credit.”

“Good luck, Sire.”

The young king-to-be placed his hands to Donal’s brow and the knight’s eyes closed, breathing settling into a peaceful rhythm.

“Bother!” Malcolm snapped as Vasco closed the door.

“Your Highness?”

“There was something I was going to ask him about – from the second day of the battle at Killingford. I don’t know if he’ll remember what it was now!”

Vasco gave him a stunned look.

Malcolm sighed. “Well hopefully it wasn’t important.” He stood over his brother and reached down. “Goodbye Cinhil. Give my love to Albina and Micole.”

And Cinhil Haldane ceased to breathe.


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed._  
1 Corinthians 15:51

Somewhere between the Grande and the Curry Rivers, Prince Marek had realised he was being pursued and turned east with a small party while the rest of his command continued towards Rengarth.

“He must have been making for Carcashale,” Stiofan concluded as he lowered his spy-glass and turned to Airlie. “Either to try the pass at night or hoping the castle there would stay loyal to the Earl who pledged himself to his father rather than the Earl who was murdered.”

His son nodded. “If the peasants hadn’t told us a party of knights was riding this way he’d have made it.”

“Do you understand why they told us?”

“Because they’re loyal to the Haldanes?”

“That’s part of it, Airlie. But why are they loyal to them? I doubt any of them have ever even laid eyes on Urien or his sons.”

Airlie pointed to the village below. “I think some of them must have laid eyes on Marek though – or at least a part of his army.” Wooden buildings had been reduced to ashes and stone ones had mostly lost their roofs to the same fires, now replaced with improvised shelter from the weather.

“Aye. Let that be a lesson to you – the Festils ravaged the kingdom they wanted to claim, the Haldanes did not. It takes little to hold the loyalty of the small folk once you have it – but abuse them and they will have their revenge in the most surprising of ways.” Stiofan twisted in his saddle and waved for his men to move ahead.

The party making their way up the valley and past the village came to a halt as they saw dozens of horsemen crest the rise to their left and start spilling down the slope towards them.

Some turned their own horses to flee but Stiofan had brought enough remounts to be confident his horses were more rested than theirs. Probably the decision not to take any was to reduce the chances of their tracks being spotted, he decided.

“Bring down their horses,” he ordered sharply as a file of horse archers caught up with him – less burdened with armour they could outpace the destriers of the lancers.

The sergeant at the head of the file struck his chest in salute and his men uncased their short recurve bows.

Four horses fell to the first volley of shafts and more than half the Torenthi knights reined in and held up empty hands in surrender. If escape wasn’t an option there was no point in their losing valuable horses they might be able to retain through paying a ransom.

Not all were willing to face that fate though and three more horses and one of the knights lay dead before the Corwyn horsemen had the rest of the party surrounded.

Stiofan waved forward a squad of men to separate those who’d surrendered first from their comrades. None of them seemed likely to be Prince Marek – he would be around Airlie’s age and they all seemed to be fully grown. “Take off your helms,” he called out. “My most noble sovereign, Cinhil Haldane, King of Gwynedd; has decreed that those who surrender will be treated in accordance with the laws of war.”

“To who are we surrendering?” called out one of the men who’d been more stubborn.

“To Lord Stiofan de Corwyn. Which one of you is Lord Marek Furstán-Festil, son of the self-proclaimed king of Gwynedd.”

A pale boy removed his helmet. “I am Marek, rightful king by succession to my father. Spare my men and I will surrender.”

Stiofan, who had been Truth-Reading the boy shook his head. “Even if that was true, you have no bargaining position. I admire your courage rather than that of your lord but surely you should be aware you cannot lie to a Deryni.”

The youth dropped his head in defeat and another rider moved to the fore. He wore no surcoat but his armour was clearly of a finer craftsmanship than that of the first. “Your house rules Corwyn only because my ancestors made it so, Stiofan de Corwyn. My squire has been more loyal to me than the Dukes of Corwyn have to their sworn overlords.”

Given his father’s decisions of late Stiofan felt his face tighten at that accusation. “I salute his courage and his loyalty. So I’ll offer you this.” He swept his eyes across the knights. “Those of you who dismount and disarm will, with two exceptions, be held for ransom. Given the alternative,” and he nodded to the archers, “I don’t recommend you decline but the choice is yours.”

“Lord Marek’s squire… what’s your name, boy?”

“Fyödor, sir.”

“Young Fyödor will have my safe conduct back to Torenth to take the necessary messages to your families.”

The boy seemed inclined to protest but Marek shook him a quelling look. “Since I doubt I’ll be able to repay his loyalty, I thank you for offering him that mercy. I take it that I am the last exception.”

“Naturally.”

The young prince nodded. “My kinsmen died in duel arcane with the Haldanes. Since I believe you will agree I am heir to Tolan, will you accept my challenge as an equal? We are both Deryni lords.”

Stiofan drew his sword and pointed it back down the valley to the village. “I have one question for you. Your father gave the orders for that and for many other villages to be destroyed the same way. Did you have any part in carrying out those instructions?”

Young Marek met his eyes. “As God is my witness, I did not.”

He nodded. “If you had, I’d have handed you over to the villagers to hang.”

“And my challenge?”

“I refuse. You will die today. The only mercy I may offer you is the services of a priest and to die by the sword, your body to be buried honourably.”

“Imre III, my great-great-grandfather was cut into pieces and displayed across Gwynedd.” Marek slumped in the saddle. “Very well. Lay down your arms.”

“Your Highness!”

“Lay them down!” he shrilled. “If I cannot live as a king then I will at least die like a prince should. And no fair prince would let his men die for no purpose.”

One at a time the knights around him left their saddles, removing their swords and hanging them by the swordbelts from their saddle bows, until only Fyödor remained at Marek’s side.

The prince unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to the squire. “One last gift, in lieu of the knighthood I’ll never be able to grant you.”

Stiofan turned to Airlie. “Take the boy aside but don’t disarm him unless he gives you trouble.” He looked back to his men. “Someone bring the priest forward.”

“You’re going to do it here?”

He nodded. “I don’t see any point in riding you halfway across Gwynedd to make a spectacle of this.”

While Marek gave his last confession and removed his armour the men spread out in a rough circle. The Torenthi knights were allowed to stand witness under guard, as was Fyödor. The thin clouds high in the sky were being blown from the west across the mountains into Torenth. The sun was high and bright.

Stiofan leant back, hands resting on the crosshilts of his sword, and watched the sky until he heard footsteps. He looked up and saw Marek. The young man was trying to hide his fear but as a father he could tell.

“I won’t ask if you’re ready, but if you need any longer with the priest…”

“He’s done everything he can. Call your executioner.”

Stiofan shook his head and raised his sword before him in salute. “This duty was given to me, Lord Marek.”

The boy nodded and looked up at the sky before kneeling and lowering his head.

For a moment Stiofan saw Airlie in Marek’s place. He touched the tip of the blade to the young prince’s shoulders and then raised it high. “You might have made a better king than your father would have.”

“I suppose we’ll never -”

The downstroke of Stiofan’s sword cut short Marek and his final words.

.o0o.

Amid the hanging gardens of Beldour, the courtiers of Torenth didn’t circulate as they once had. The priests had elected Timotheos of Ortenbourg as the new Patriarch but preparations for his installation took them away from the royal court. Meanwhile the noble houses were busy attempting to determine who succeeded to the estates and titles of the dead.

Since in some cases that matter depended on establishing exactly who had died first, that would take longer than electing a new Patriarch. Some cases, where testimony conflicted, would have to be brought before the king and no one wanted to do that until he’d calmed down.

“So what did father say?”

Zimri shook his head. “He’s talking about calling for additional levies from the garrisons in the northern and eastern borders.”

“Byzantyun may not invade since the Autokrator is our cousin,” Arkady conceded. “But north? Is he mad? It took us almost thirty years to drive them back and now he wants to open the door to them again.”

“It’s only a matter of time until Gwynedd sends an army across the mountains and invades us. We need an army to stop them.”

“Another army to be slaughtered… and how are we going to pay for this? Fighting a war is like taking the money in the treasury and throwing it all into the river. The money looted from the north has been spent. What’s he going to do, demand additional taxes from families already mourning after this debacle?”

“He’s the king.”

“For now,” Arkady said with considerable weight.

Zimri paled. “You’re talking about our father.”

“I’m talking about limiting the damage he’s causing.”

The younger surviving brothers looked to their elders. “Arkady… you’re talking about peace with Gwynedd.”

“That’s right, Andruin.”

Kirill shook his head. “They killed Nikola. And our cousins!”

“I’m aware of that.” Arkady leaned forwards and glared into Kirill’s eyes. “And I defy you to tell me you were closer to Nikola than I was. But he wouldn’t want this either. What are we fighting for? There isn’t even anyone for us to put on the throne of Gwynedd – all that’s left is Marek’s daughter and Duke Imre’s sisters.”

“There are cousins too, in the house of Mór,” Zimri disagreed.

Arkady walked over to the nearest balcony. “Count Zygmunt has returned to Medras. I’ve ordered him to send a herald to the Haldanes… in the name of Arkady, King of Torenth.”

There was stunned silence.

“I don’t intend to harm our father if it can be avoided. But if any of you intend to defend him from me I suggest you push me now.”

He looked back after a few moments. “No, I didn’t think so.”

“What have you offered them?” asked Kirill quietly.

Arkady refrained from adjusting his court robes. It wouldn’t do to look nervous after all that. “Return of the border fortresses we took – and Cardosa, which will give them control of that pass.”

“That still doesn’t give them any reason not to invade us – it’ll even make it easier.”

“The Haldanes have been hurt almost as badly as we have. They’ve no surety of winning a prolonged war against us… and I’ve offered them a surety that we’ve no further cause to fight against them.”

“What surety do you mean?”

Zimri froze. “The Festils… they don’t have any male heirs, but the women…”

“The first thing I did on returning to Beldour was to take custody of Salentina Furstán-Festil. As Marek’s last remaining child she and any children she has are the heirs to the Festillic claim on Gwynedd. So long as Haldane controls her, we’ve no cause to rally behind – both claims are out of our hands.”

His brothers looked at him.

“So who else supports this?” Kirill asked at last.

“Torval of Arjenol – father shouldn’t have had his uncle executed. The Counts of Sostra, Fathane, Medras and Kulnán have pledged their support and Nikola’s officers from Arkadia are my officers now.”

“Truvorsk too.” Zimri folded his arms. “So what’s the plan?”

Arkady reached into his robe and produced a writ of abdication he’d drawn up in preparation. “I’ve already signed this as a witness. Now you do the same.” He looked each of his brothers in the eyes one at a time. “Then father signs it. Even if one of us has to hold the quill for him.”

.o0o.

“Should I be concerned you were listening to my mumbling while I was comatose?”

Vasco shrugged. “It wasn’t an entirely instant thing, we thought you were simply sleepy that evening. It wasn’t until you didn’t wake up the next morning we realised something was the matter.”

Donal rubbed his face. “I can’t blame Malcolm for being angry with me. We weren’t on the best of terms before that and this….”

“I’m sure he isn’t angry with you.”

“I was supposed to be helping his father and when he needed me the most I was asleep.”

The other knight took his shoulder. “That isn’t your fault. I know he’s a bit distant but taking the throne so suddenly – it’s a lot of weight on his shoulders. If he was really angry, do you think he’d have named you one of his honour guard for tomorrow?”

“Perhaps not, but…”

“Are you blaming yourself?”

The Deryni paused and looked out of the nearest window. “Perhaps I am. The last thing I remember clearly is previous day – serving as Cinhil’s herald to the Torenthi. I suppose a knock to the head wouldn’t do my memory much good, but...”

“You were at Urien’s side for the next day too. I wouldn’t say you were in the hottest fighting but I don’t believe he had any complaints.”

“I suppose not.” Donal tilted his head to one side. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to the Count of Sostra? From what he said when we met as heralds he was going to come looking at me on the battlefield the next day.”

Vasco frowned in thought. “I think he was commanding part of the Torenthi retreat on the third day. I’m not sure what happened to him after that, I don’t think he was on the list of those captured… no, his column refused a demand for surrender and fought their way back to their camp. Unless he was injured then, he’s probably back in Sostra now.”

“Oh well. I suppose some business can remain unfinished.” Donal gestured to the library door. “So what did you want to show me?”

Inside the library Vasco went unerringly to a shelf in one corner and carefully pulled free a heavy tome. “Talbot’s Life of Saints. This volume was copied not long after the Haldane Restoration.”

“Oh?” Donal frowned. “Why that one, particularly??”

“Because I’ve had a look at the copy in the Archbishop’s library – copied out almost twenty years later – and there’s an interesting omission in that version.”

Donal raised his eyebrows. “After the Statute of Ramos you mean?”

“Precisely.” Laying the tome down on the desk carefully, Vasco paged through it reverently before pointing out one specific entry. “Saint Camber of Culdi. Defender of Humankind. Kingmaker. Patron of the responsible use of magic.”

“I can see why he doesn’t appear in later copies. So why do you want to show me this?”

Vasco turned the page and to reveal a portrait of the Deryni saint. “You kept mumbling his name that evening.”

I must have been thinking about the Camberian Council, Donal realised. Thankfully Vasco doesn’t know their name to make the connection. He looked down at the page and then started as he took a closer look at the face.

It has been drawn by an artist who’d met Camber in life, according to the supplementary note – a face that seemed a little too young for an Earl who’d been almost sixty at his death, with kind eyes and a head of shoulder-length grey hair. But if the hair were silver, not grey…

Camber, by the descriptions in the family records, had had the same golden hair that still characterised some of the MacRories’ descendants – including Donal himself – and as he aged it had supposedly silvered. Allowing that grey might have been a limitations of the artist’s palette…

It could be the face that had replaced Anscom’s, months ago in the royal chamber in Valoret.

“He was buried at Caerrorie,” Vasco noted, reading from the text. “But when his tomb was opened later no body was found. His son claimed to have reburied him, fearing the tomb would be a target for Camber’s enemies, but he never revealed where and many believed he’d been bodily taken into heaven after his death… Camber’s son may have been prescient.”

“Don’t look at me. Scrying for the future is nothing but a myth as far as magic goes. So I was talking about Camber?”

“You were. Does it bring any memories back?”

“Not of that night, no.” Donal looked down at the book again. “Would it surprise you if I said I thought I felt his presence when I helped activate King Urien’s powers?”

“Sir Donal, there isn’t much about that entire business that didn’t surprise me.”

.o0o.

Donal wasn’t the only member of Malcolm’s honour guard of course. Perhaps to make a point, the new king had made a point of picking the knights almost equally from those who’d distinguished themselves in battle and the unconfirmed heirs of nobles who’d fallen in the war. Donal had looked for young Gillis de Traherne, who should surely have deserved a place after his sagacity at Saint Piran’s only to be told the young Earl of Traherne had fallen on the last day at Killingford and so his place was taken by his uncle.

Malcolm rode at the head of the procession of course but Jaron was only a horse’s length behind him and to his right, both young Haldanes wearing tunics quartered in crimson and gold under light cloaks of white silk. The state crown sat on Malcolm’s head, covering what was left of his clerical tonsure but the only difference in their garb was the white belt of knighthood around his waist, for it was the unanimous decision of the knights present that their young king, though more than a year short of the eighteen years usually a requirement, was more than worthy to receive the accolade of knighthood.

At the same ceremony, a bemused Sean-Seamus MacArdry had received his own knighthood so that he too could ride in the honour guard as well.

The knights behind them rode in a column of four that filled the road as they passed between cheering crowds and buildings bedecked with banners for though Rhemuth had loved their old King, they had taken the young and handsome Malcolm to their hearts.

Donal found himself in the centre of the second rank – flanked to the left by Vasco and the right by Sir Piran and Sir Allen. As they turned a bend he looked back and saw behind the knights of the escort the next party within the procession – white canopies carried above the leaders and the banners of many kingdoms behind them.

“Did you ever think you’d see this day?” asked one of the new earls who rode in the first rank.

Donal turned his head back and saw Walther de Cynfyn in a less muted version of the Lendour livery than he’d once been accustomed to. “Not as things have played out, no.”

“No more did the rest of us,” agreed the aged Mellish O’Flynn who was now left to replace his nephew Tamlynn as Earl of Derry. “We’ve yet to see how the rest plays out though.”

The great doors of Saint George’s were open but no Archbishop stood ready to welcome him for the Curia had yet to decide upon a successor to the fallen Marcus des Varreaux, much less his superior John of Benevent in Valoret. That would be something that Malcolm would have to push them to decide on and swiftly but for now Jashan Haldane stood to greet his nephews, flanked by vigorous and perhaps ambitious Faustin MacArt, both bishops in cassocks of an imperial purple beneath their snowy white cassocks and stoles.

Like the shepherds of men their croziers marked them as, each of the two princes of the church ushered one of the two Haldane princes into the cathedral where more clergy waited – a crowd of candle bearers, choristers and boys swinging censers that spread the scent of incense before the two young men as they marched under episcopal direction towards the altar. A coronet sat upon the altar and Donal spotted the moment that Jaron saw it, his head snapping around towards his brother who favoured him with a smile perhaps a hair to sly to befit a king – although the gracious wave of his hand was more befitting that rank.

“So the rumour is true then – Prince Jaron will wear a duke’s coronet before the day is done?”

Vasco nodded in response to Piran’s question. “Well he is the heir presumptive until Malcolm has a son of his own. It would be expected for him to be granted some lands when he comes of age next month.”

Malcolm and Jaron took their places on the altar steps and the knights obediently filtered under the direction of Bishop MacArt to take their places to the right of the Haldanes.

The solemn Te Deum that had greeted the Haldanes was replaced by a silvery fanfare of triumph and the choir turned their voices from the welcome due a king to that of a queen.

Queen Jaroni had veiled herself to hide tears as she led the next party through the transept and then stood aside to wait for the escorts to their places. For this was not her day save in that special fashion of a mother.

Roisian of Meara, tall, slender and blonde, was upon the arm of her great-uncle King Théofrid of Bremagne. She held her head high and there were gasps from some of those within the cathedral who had not yet realised how fair a princess Malcolm was to wed.

A second canopy approached the door and Princess Rhetice had shed the grave demeanour she’d worn since the news of Cinhil’s death had reached Rhemuth. She was smiling gladly as she stepped aside to join her grandmother at the door and the friend she had led within continued forwards upon the attendant arm of Count Zygmunt.

She, like Roisian, was blonde but the murmur that went up at Salentina Furtsán-Festil’s arrival was not at her beauty but at her bloodline. Apparently fearlessly she walked past the stalls to stand beside Roisian.

Jashan Haldane stepped forward from the altar and spoke briefly to the two brides and then, placing one hand upon each of their heads he spoke, not to Roisian or Salentina but to all those present. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God. So said our Lord and Saviour and so shall we take these courageous daughters of God into our hearts as the seal of peace.”

And then he turned to two Haldanes and began that most ancient and blessed of the Church’s rites, for today was not the end but a new beginning.


End file.
